


Into the Great Wide Open

by AmyPond45



Series: In the West [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Sam, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, First Time, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, one of the boys doesn’t know they’re brothers, pov: dean, secrets and lies, witch!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: A hundred years ago in a dystopian world where monsters have won the West and Sam and Dean were raised not knowing they were brothers, Sam and Dean reunite after a six-year separation and go in search of Dean’s mother through the Colorado Rockies. On the way, they fight monsters, meet an Angel of the Lord, and find gruesome evidence of a lost battle and abandoned human settlements. Eventually, they admit their love for each other, and together they begin to unravel the secrets and mysteries of their world and their place in it. But will their love survive when Sam learns the truth about his birthright?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my brilliant artist, [sillie82](https://sillie82.livejournal.com/profile). Be sure to visit her [art post here](https://sillie82.livejournal.com/454636.html) and give her some love! Thanks also to [soy_em](https://soy-em.livejournal.com/profile), my fearless beta, and to wendy for moderating this bang.
> 
> This is a sequel to my fic [Out of Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138734), but it’s not necessary to read that fic first to understand this one.

**//**//**

“It’s over, boy. Time to go home.”

Bobby Singer tips his hat back against the hot breeze, swiping at his forehead with his sleeve. The fire’s burnt itself out, leaving a grisly, smoking scene of death and sorrow.

The bodies are strewn in a line across the open field in front of them, one beside the next. All were burnt to a crisp. None were recognizable, except for their size.

All thirteen victims were children.

“He’s not here, Bobby,” Dean says, shaking his head. He took his hat off when they first arrived at the scene, out of respect for the dead. Or just plain fear. “I’d know it if he was.”

Bobby sighs. “You two and your crazy kismet,” he mutters. “I’ll never understand it, and I’m grateful for that. It’ll be the death of you yet, your bond with that kid.”

“Come on,” Dean says, pulling a short shovel from his pack. “Let’s bury ‘em.”

**//**//**

It takes the better part of the afternoon to dig enough graves in the hard soil to bury the bodies. Bobby grumbles the entire time, complaining about his back and the crick in his neck, about how his “callouses are getting callouses” from the shoveling.

Finally, Dean makes the old man sit under the shade of a scraggly tree next to the river while Dean finishes the job alone. It isn’t easy work, but Dean thrives on the physical labor. It keeps his mind off the fact that he couldn’t save these kids, that they died because he couldn’t get there in time, that Sam might have been among them.

It’s been three years since Dean’s seen his brother. Three years since the night Mary Winchester came home to take her youngest son away with her while Dean recovered from his own burn injuries, inflicted after a nearly-fatal fight with Adam Mulligan, the older half-brother who tried to kill him.

It’s been three years since Sam dragged Dean from the fire that destroyed their home, saving his life by ending Adam’s.

As soon as he was well enough, Dean set out to search for his family. At first, Dean assumed it would be easy. Mary had promised to keep Sam safe, and Sam had promised to wait for him. Dean and Bobby traveled across the plains, into the mountains, following the Overland Trail and the dismantled tracks of the Transcontinental Railroad. The training camp where Mary had taken Sam was rumored to be somewhere in Oregon, so that’s where they headed.

After a year in the wilderness, Dean realized the search wasn’t going to be as simple and straightforward as he first thought. They found the remnants of a training camp in Central Oregon, but it had been deserted for some time, and there was no sign of Sam or Mary there. None of the local Natives or Settlers had ever heard of them. It was as if they had vanished from the Earth without a trace.

The night they spent in the empty camp was the first time Bobby suggested they give up and go home.

“They know where we are. Let them come home to you.”

At one level, Dean knew Bobby was right, that his best chance of getting Sam back was to go home and wait for him. He knew that otherwise he might very well spend the rest of his life looking and probably die as his father had, without finding the person he loved most in the world. Dean would never forgive his mother for doing that to his father. He would never understand it.

But Sam was different. Sam was a child when Mary took him away. He was only twelve years old. Dean wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. The urge to keep looking, to turn over every possible rock and stone, to check with every passing hunter and every settlement he encountered, was too strong.

So they went on looking, expanding their search as far south as Texas and as far north as Montana. They found struggling settlements, burned-out homesteads and Native villages that had been destroyed or overrun. Marauding humans were almost as common as werewolf packs, now that the Westward Expansion had been abandoned. Eventually, Dean and Bobby made it to California, where the only real human civilizations continued to thrive, in Native fishing villages and in San Francisco, which continued to receive regular supplies from the East by ship. There they learned that Europe and the Orient were struggling with monster infestations of their own.

At first, Dean thought that Mary had hidden Sam deliberately, as a way to keep him safe. But as time went by and Dean ran out of leads, he began to fear the worst. He didn’t stop looking, but he couldn’t shake the aching sensation in his gut that told him Bobby was right: Sam and Mary were dead. They couldn’t still be alive after all this time. If they were, somebody would have seen them. Somebody among all the hunters and Natives they encountered in their travels would have heard something.

Now, after three years, Bobby was urging Dean to admit defeat.

“Come on home, boy,” he begged. “It’s time to start over. Try to make a new life for yourself. You owe them that.”

So Dean followed Bobby back to Lawrence. The town had changed. Many Settlers had gone back East, giving up on trying to make a living on the unforgiving plains, where the topsoil was thin and storms were plentiful and devastating.

Those who remained had hunkered down, built a wall around the town that could be slammed shut against invaders in the event of an attack. The wall was made of spell work as much as rock and sod and iron from the broken railway ties of the Transcontinental Railroad. The town had become a way station for travelers. It had a hotel and a saloon, a blacksmith shop and livery stables, a church and a general store and a few houses, but nothing more.

Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo still ran the roadhouse about a mile out of town, welcoming hunters who needed a place to eat, drink, and share news of the ongoing struggle to survive in a monster-infested wilderness.

“The town needs you,” she said as she opened her best whiskey for Bobby and Dean. “Pamela and Travis have been coordinating the spell-casting to keep the wall safe, but the attacks are coming pretty frequently now. Maybe once every three or four months. The bastards know we’re here, and they want to break us. We could use a couple of good hunters with your skills and leadership abilities.”

Nobody had heard a word about Sam and Mary.

Bobby agreed to stay, to become sheriff of Lawrence. But Dean was back on the road within a few weeks, heading West again, determined to find his family or die trying. Bobby made him take a couple of hunters with him, but within a few months Dean was alone. Other hunters wanted gold, or adventure, or the thrill of the kill. They were gamblers and outlaws and misfits, and Dean didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them.

Time passed differently in the wilderness. There were weeks and months when Dean didn’t see another living soul, only wildlife. In the fall, when the nights grew cold and the days were crisp and clear, Dean headed south, seeking warmer climates to ride out the long winter months. He stopped for a few days at a Native village in Nevada and at a settlement in Texas, pitched in and helped with spell-casting and hunting to earn his keep before moving on again. After the first time, they were glad to see him, and it almost felt like coming home when he showed up the following year, and the next.

At the end of each winter he headed North again, making the now-familiar loop through the Rockies and up the Oregon Trail to the abandoned training camp he and Bobby found that first year. Something told him Sam had been there. It was the last place Dean knew for certain that Sam had lived. He always spent a night there, dreaming. He always woke up with tears on his cheeks.

Sometimes Dean thought Sam was near. He imagined he had just missed him when he came across a camp where hunters may have eaten a meal the night before. He imagined how Sam would look, now that he was grown. Tall, he thought, like their dad. Dean imagined the face of the little boy he had helped raise, stretched and thinned with age. Sam’s eyes would be the same, he decided. That was how he’d know him. Dean would never forget Sam’s eyes, even if he couldn’t remember exactly what Sam looked like anymore.

Nothing could have prepared Dean for the night Sam stepped back into his life.

**//**//**

It’s a couple of hours after dark, and Dean’s just settling down to sleep for a few hours. He laid his salt circle and camped under a rock overhang, eating the last of the rabbit he caught and skinned the previous day for his supper. He doesn’t want to draw attention so he didn’t bother lighting a fire; the early spring night is chilly but not so cold that Dean can’t sleep.

When he hears a rustle behind him, Dean draws his knife and crouches quietly, blinking into the darkness. A figure stands about ten feet away, silhouetted against the night sky, silent and still as a statue.

“Dean?”

The voice is deep, but something about the inflection is familiar. For a moment, Dean thinks he’s dreaming. Then the figure moves, shuffling sideways so that the moonlight falls on his profile.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Dean’s on his feet, crossing the distance without hesitation, grabbing onto the apparition before he can disappear.

Later, he takes himself to task for being so ready to believe that this was Sam. His Sam. But in the moment, his desperation gets the better of him. He was about to give up for good. He was on his way back to Lawrence to publicly admit his defeat to anyone who was left alive there. For Sam to materialize now, at the moment when Dean was considering whether to shoot himself instead — it didn’t even matter whether Sam was real or not. If Dean could grab onto him, even for one more moment before he turned into a shapeshifter and killed him, that was enough.

“You got so big.” Damn the shaky voice. Dean’s barely keeping it together.

“Yeah.”

“Damn it, Sam. Where the hell have you been, huh?” He shakes the kid, then pulls him in for another hug. “Thought you were dead. Thought you were long dead.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. Mary said it wasn’t the right time. She said we had to stay hidden...”

“Huh? What? Mom? She with you?”

“No, she’s still back at base camp.”

“Where? We went there, Sam. Bobby and me went all the way to Oregon. Found that place deserted and empty. We thought you’d been killed. Figured you were both dead!”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. We didn’t mean to scare you, Dean, but Mary said it wasn’t time. She kept telling me I’d put you in danger if I let you find me.”

Dean pushes Sam away, keeping him at arms’ length so he can get a good look. The boy’s rangy, tall and slim, taller than Dean. He looks like the twelve-year-old Dean remembers, only stretched long and with a deeper voice.

“Whatcha been doin’? Huh? Where ya been these past six years?”

_Six years. It’s been six years._

“Training,” Sam says. “Learning everything there is about being a good hunter. Also...I’m a mage now, Dean.”

“A — a what?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods, licks his lips. “Mary taught me everything she knows about magic. She says I’ve got real potential.”

Dean feels a hot swath of jealousy surge through him. His mother had given this knowledge to Sam, the knowledge of doing spells and incantations, all the things Dean had learned from her childhood journal, the one Pastor Jim gave him when he was twelve. The knowledge and training that was supposed to be his, Dean’s mother had given to Sam instead.

“That’s good, Sam,” Dean says, keeping his voice as steady as he can manage. “That’s real good. You’re smart. You probably memorized everything first time you learned it. I’m happy for you.”

Sam nods, takes a deep breath. “So I can join your fight now. Mary says I’m finally ready.”

Dean takes another step back, staring at Sam with wide eyes. “My fight? What are you talking about, Sam?”

Sam blinks, frowns, shifts his feet and licks his lips, nervous and unsure. “The monsters,” he says hesitantly. “The fight against evil. I’m ready to help you now. I was useless before, so I can see why you didn’t want me, but I’m eighteen now, Dean. I’m a mage as well as a hunter. I can help.”

Dean’s stuck back on what Sam said before that last thing; it makes his insides swoop hard and hot. “Didn’t _want_ you? You think I didn’t _want_ you? Where in the hell did you get _that_ idea, huh? How could you _think_ that?”

Sam frowns, licks his lips again. “Well, I mean, I get it. I was a criminal, wanted by the law. A total liability. You couldn’t have that hanging around your neck while you and Uncle Bobby were trying to do your jobs.”

Dean’s sight goes black and for a moment he thinks he might pass out. Sam thought Dean didn’t _want_ him?

“Sammy, I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, but I looked for you. I went to that camp on the mountain in Oregon as soon as I could and I looked for you. I’ve never stopped looking for you. How could you think I didn’t want you? How did you get that idea?”

Sam gives a slight shake of his head. “Mary said she talked to you,” he says, confusion suffusing his features, making his skin look darker. “She said you told her to train me, keep me with her until I was old enough to join you.”

“I never said that, Sam,” Dean shakes his head violently. “No, no, no. I don’t know why she said that to you, but I haven’t seen Mom since that day after the fire. The day she took you away.”

Sam blinks, then squints, like he’s trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind Dean’s words. Or like he’s finally making sense of things Mary told him, about Dean wanting him to stay away. Dean knows that wouldn’t have made sense to Sam, but he would’ve believed it if Mary told him that it was what Dean wanted.

It kills him to think of Sam believing that Dean would send him away like that. To think of Sam spending the last six years believing Dean didn’t want him, believing Dean thought Sam was useless and a burden...

Dean can see the moment Sam believes him. The moment the pieces fall into place for him.

“Take me to her,” Dean commands, anger bubbling just under the surface of his words so that even he can hear it.

It’s dangerous, traipsing through the woods at night, but Dean’s too keyed up to care. Sam leads the way, and Dean’s immediately impressed with Sam’s ability to see in the dark. He steps sure-footedly between tangled tree roots and pushes aside undergrowth, following a path that Dean’s sure he wouldn’t be able to find even in the daylight. Sam only stops once in the first hour, kneeling by a running brook for fresh water, and Dean does the same, stunned by the cold, fresh taste. He fills his canteen as Sam waits patiently, which is when he realizes Sam isn’t carrying a pack.

“Is it far?” He asks as he shoulders his pack.

Sam shakes his head. “Just a few hours walk.”

“Sam, I don’t understand. How did you know where to find me?”

Dean can’t see the boy’s face, but he’s fairly sure Sam’s smiling. He looks off across the woods for a moment, and when he faces Dean again, his eyes flash in the moonlight.

“I know a location spell,” he says. “It’s easy. I can show you when it gets light, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, impressed. “I’d like that.”

After another hour of walking, Dean asks, “Why now?”

Sam understands without asking Dean to clarify. “My eighteenth birthday,” he says. “Mary said you told her I could join you as soon as I turned eighteen.”

Then Dean remembers. It’s May 2, the date they had always celebrated Sam’s birthday when they were kids.

Sam hadn’t wasted a day.

Daylight is just creeping through the trees when they reach a clearing. The grass in the clearing has been stomped down, but otherwise there’s nothing there.

“Here we are,” Sam says. He frowns, eyes narrowing.

“This is where your base camp was?” Dean looks around for signs of life, or even of recent camp activity, but sees nothing but the flattened grass.

“Is,” Sam corrects, frowning. “It’s here. It’s just hidden. Hold on a minute.”

Dean watches as Sam closes his eyes, breathing in deep through his nose, then raises his arm straight out in front of him, palm out. For a moment, nothing happens, and Dean starts to wonder if Sam’s having a seizure.

Then the air shimmers and buildings appear.

Dean whirls around, staring wild-eyed at the frame houses that weren’t there a moment before. There’s a stable with fresh hay strewn on the floor, a long low building that looks like a Native longhouse with a door covered in buckskin, and a smaller house that looks like a supply depot. A few flat patches of ground where tents may have stood complete the circle. Dean notices sticks laid in a precise replica of the protection sigils he used to lay around the farm back home in Lawrence, more sigils drawn on the buildings in black charcoal. The fire-pit in the center of the clearing is visible now, still smoldering. Otherwise, the camp is deserted.

“How did you — “ Dean lets his gaze settle on Sam, and the sight takes his breath away.

The rising sun is casting a reddish-gold light on Sam’s skin that makes him look other-worldly. Powerful. Almost glowing.

At the same time, the lost look in his eyes as he gazes around the empty clearing makes Dean’s heart ache. Dean can see the little boy Sam was once, but it’s the young man that makes Dean’s heart race. Sam is beautiful, radiant, magical. With the power of the spell still shining out from his multi-colored eyes, Sam’s stunning, and Dean can’t tear his eyes away. He stares, transfixed. Bewitched.

He’s grateful he couldn’t get a good look at the kid in the dark, because he’s fairly sure he never would have followed him. He wouldn’t have been able to. As it is, he stands frozen and staring like a smitten schoolgirl, and it isn’t until Sam finally notices and frowns that Dean can look away.

But it’s too late. Sam blushes, grins so that his dimples are on display along with his unusually white teeth, and Dean’s unable to look away again. He can feel his face splitting open with a grin of his own while his chest blooms with so much warmth he’s pretty sure he’s melting.

“Yeah.” Sam ducks his head, long hair falling around his face. “It’s an invisibility spell. It’s really useful.”

Sam looks up, biting on his lower lip. He smiles bashfully again when he sees Dean still staring and shakes his head.

“A spell, huh?” Dean repeats, clearing his throat. “That something Mom taught you?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. She learned it from a Navajo shaman. Along with the hiding-in-plain-sight spell I used tonight when I found you.”

“But — “ Dean frowns. “I _saw_ you. I knew it was you. I mean, I didn’t even question that, and I _know_ better. I know about shapeshifters, man, and I still knew it was you. So how did you manage that, huh?”

Sam ducks his head again, shakes it a little. “Your mom, man. She knows so much.” He looks away for a minute, and Dean stares at his profile. It’s beautiful, too. “She made some kind of soul bond between us, I think. She didn’t explain it, wouldn’t confess to it when I asked her. But I think we’re connected somehow. I think she did it a long time ago, before she gave me to you and your dad.”

Dean’s shocked. Why would their mother do this? What purpose would it serve?

At the same time, it hits him how perfect it is. It explains so much, all the feelings he’s had for Sam since the first time he saw him, back when John first handed four-year-old Sam down out of his saddle and into Dean’s arms, when he told Dean to take care of Sam. When he said, “He’s yours now.”

In the same moment, Dean remembers. They’re brothers. Actual blood brothers. That’s why he and Sam feel so connected. It’s genetics.

But genetics can’t be all this is. Dean shakes his head. He never felt this connected to Adam, despite sharing his blood. Adam was only his half brother. Dean and Sam share a mother and a father. They’re full brothers.

But if it’s genetics that cause them to feel so connected, why the soul bond? Wouldn’t that be overkill?

Dean’s never known siblings who feel this kind of connection before. Not that he’s had a lot of experience, or read so many books. But it’s not something he’s ever heard of.

Then it hits him. Mary didn’t tell Sam. He doesn’t know they’re brothers.

“Why would she do that?” he asks, shaken. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just come out and tell Sam the truth. He just knows he needs to hear Sam’s answer first.

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Well, she wouldn’t tell me when I asked, but I have a theory.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.” This should be good.

“I think she had a vision, about us,” Sam says. “I think she sees us together, in the future.”

Dean sucks in a breath, hides his racing heart by rubbing his neck and staring at the ground. He should put an end to this right now. Sam deserves to know the truth, even if Mary thought he didn’t.

Before Dean has a chance to overthink the situation, Sam lifts his head.

“Something’s coming,” Sam says, pulling a long blade from a sheath strung across his back, adopting a defensive stance as he stares out into the woods beyond the buildings.

Then Dean hears it too, a low growling that might be animals if Dean didn’t know better. It’s coming from all around them. They’re surrounded. Definitely out-numbered, from the sounds of it.

Dean drops his pack, draws his six-shooter and turns so that he’s back to back with Sam. “We need a better defensive position,” he says, glancing at the supply shed. “We’re sitting ducks out here in the open.”

He feels Sam’s nod of agreement.

“Gotta move fast,” Dean says. “On three.”

As soon as Dean yells “Go!” he grabs Sam and runs headlong for the shelter, slamming the door behind them. He can feel rather than see the monsters swarm into the clearing, then hurl themselves against the door and walls of the shed. The growls become howls as the creatures take out their rage and frustration on the small building, and for the first few seconds all Sam and Dean can do is lean their weight against the closed door and hope for the best. In the gloom it’s hard to make out the shelves and barrels, but when Dean’s eyes fall on the two-by-four leaning against the wall he grabs hold of it and frantically shoves it into place across the door, relieved when it holds. The building was clearly designed to withstand just this kind of assault.

“Werewolves,” Sam shouts over the banging and howling. He’s put his blade away and has a gun in his hand, following Dean’s lead.

“No shit!” Dean shouts back as he wedges his gun into a hole between the wooden slats of the wall. “Silver’s the only thing that kills ‘em. Silver bullets to the heart.”

“I know.” Sam shouts as he loads his gun and takes a position next to Dean.

It’s not too hard for Dean to get one of the monsters in his sights. They’re literally crawling and clawing all over the little supply shed. Dean catches a flash of long, jagged teeth, aims his shot six inches below, and fires. The monster yelps and falls away, replaced immediately by another one. Dean fires again, hears Sam’s shot hit its mark as well. The same thing happens twice more before Dean faces the fact that he’s almost out of bullets and the shed’s beginning to shake. Claws are ripping at the boards of the walls, wedging in between as the monsters try to yank the shed apart.

“There’s too many of them!” Sam shouts as he pulls his gun inside to reload.

One of the things manages to tear away a shingle from the roof and Dean gets a good look at drooling, ugly werewolf before he blows it away, only to be replaced by another a moment later.

It occurs to him that they’re both going to die here, without ever getting to know each other again. After the long separation, to be taken down by a pack of werewolves in the wilderness, far from any human settlements or villages, means nobody will ever know what happened to them. They’ll disappear without a trace, like so many other hunters Dean’s known. 

He glances at Sam, at his tense young face, his lean coltish body just beginning to show the promise of the muscled mountain man he’ll one day become. Or would become, if it wasn’t all going to hell right here, right now.

“Sammy, I’m sorry...” He never meant for Sam to think he didn’t want him. That’s what he’s sorry about. That Sam spent the last six years thinking Dean didn’t want him, when Sam’s been all Dean’s been able to think about every minute of every day since the moment they parted.

A werewolf has managed to tear a big enough hole in the roof to wriggle through, and Dean barely has time to whirl on it and fire before another one drops through the same hole. In the tight space the air fills with the sound of gunfire and snarling beasts, the smell of gunpowder acrid and choking. Dean’s out of bullets. He doesn’t have time to reload. He tries anyway, then makes a last ditch scramble for his blade instead as he feels something grabbing onto him from behind, slamming his head against the wall.

“Dean!”

Sam’s frantic voice shouting his name is the last thing he hears. Sam’s face plastered with a look of horror and fear is the last thing he sees. Serves him right, he thinks as his head slams against the wall again and he blacks out, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears.

**//**//**

When he comes to, it’s quiet. His head aches and throbs. His back is burning and he thinks he’s back in the farmhouse, on fire. For a moment, he thinks he’s died and gone to Hell. He always assumed he would, for the sin of falling in love with his brother. For hating his half-brother. For not being a good son, for driving his mother away and letting his father die. For losing the family farm.

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice is next to his ear, causing a hot rush of love and desire to crash through him, making his skin tingle painfully.

Not Hell, then.

Dean cracks an eye open and is nearly blinded by the bright light flooding in from above and behind Sam’s head, casting his face in shadow. The light haloes around his head so he looks like an angel.

So Heaven maybe, Dean’s bruised brain suggests. We’re in Heaven.

“Sammy?” he croaks. Not Heaven. Everything hurts too much. The air smells like smoke and blood and wet fur.

“Oh thank god,” Sam breathes. Dean feels the ghost of Sam’s hands at his throat, in his hair. Sam’s been checking his injuries, taking his pulse.

“Wh — what happened?” Dean struggles to sit up, clutching his pounding head. His hand comes away bloody, and he’s immediately nauseous.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. He grabs hold of Dean, slides a supportive arm around him.

Pain sears down his back.

Dean lets out a strangled cry and Sam lets him go, laying him back down gently on his side.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry! You’re hurt!”

All Dean can do is grunt in pain, curling himself up in a ball as Sam examines his back.

“Okay, I’m gonna need to get this off,” Sam says, voice shaky and uncertain as he tugs on Dean’s jacket. “You got tore up pretty good. I need to take a look, Dean, okay?”

Dean lets the kid remove his jacket, gritting his teeth against the urge to scream as the material tugs and tears at his wounded skin.

“Looks like some pretty serious claw marks,” Sam mutters as he pries Dean’s shirt off, rips the material away as Dean huddles and shivers. Shock. He’s in shock, his brain offers helpfully.

“Wh — where did the wolves go?” Dean stammers, his voice trembling and breathy.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “They’re just gone. Now lie still while I get something to clean this.”

Dean’s shivering violently now, teeth chattering uncontrollably. Lying still is pretty much impossible, but he does the best he can while Sam climbs over him to the storage shelves to find what he needs.

“This is gonna hurt,” Sam warns before he pours something that stings like hell on Dean’s back.

Dean cries out, curling away from the pain. He forces himself to focus on Sam’s soothing hand on his shoulder.

“Shhh, it’s okay, I got you,” Sam murmurs, rubbing Dean’s arm rhythmically until the worst of the pain subsides. “Now I’m gonna put a salve on it and get you patched up. Try to hold still for me, Dean.”

Sam mumbles in a language Dean doesn’t understand as he works, the sounds rhythmic and rhyming, and Dean begins to relax under his large, capable hands. Sam shouldn’t be so good at this, Dean’s brain reminds him more than once. He’s too young. Dean knows enough spell work to know that Sam’s weaving a healing spell, something he probably learned from Mary, and it makes Dean jealous and sad to think of all he’s lost. All those years of Sam’s life that Dean can never get back. All of Mary’s attention that should have been Dean’s, too.

He drifts into a warm, heavy sleep, and when he wakes up there are tears on his cheeks.

He rolls onto his back before remembering why he shouldn’t. But the pain isn’t as sharp as it should be. In fact, it’s more of a dull ache, as of a wound that happened weeks ago instead of just a few hours. He’s stiff, and when he pushes himself to sitting and rolls his shoulders, his muscles cramp.

Sam’s gone.

“Sam? Sammy?”

Hating how pleading and desperate he sounds, Dean pushes himself to his feet and staggers to the wide-open door of the shed, into the sunlight.

Sam’s standing at the the side of the clearing, tending a large bonfire. The sun is already sinking low on the horizon, and it’s obvious Sam has spent the better part of the day cleaning up the mess they made. He’s gathered wood and other fuel to build a funeral pyre, then wrapped the bodies of the werewolves they killed and laid them out on the pyre. The acrid-sweet smell of roasting meat makes Dean’s stomach churn; he presses the back of his hand to his mouth and waits for his stomach to settle again before staggering out of the shed.

The cool air sends him right back inside for his jacket. His shirt is a shredded, bloody mess, but he manages to shrug his jacket on over the bandages Sam’s wrapped around his torso before stumbling back outside. His stomach rumbles, but in a normal way this time, and when he gets to Sam he doesn’t even need to grab hold of him for balance. He’s definitely feeling better. His head doesn’t even hurt anymore.

“Hey.” Sam greets him, looking tired and dirty but still the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen. Even covered in soot and blood and dirt, Sam takes Dean’s breath away.

“You did this all by yourself.” It isn’t a question. Dean’s impressed. There were at least ten bodies, including the two Sam dragged from inside the shed. Burning them took a lot of fuel. “Why wrap them first?”

“They were human beings once,” Sam says with a frown. “Probably hunters. They deserved this. I tried to find out who they were, but nobody carries identification papers anymore, I guess.”

“You think they got your friends?” _Mom._ Dean doesn’t want to think of her getting bitten and turned into a werewolf, but he knows it’s a possibility.

But Sam shakes his head. “There would’ve been signs of a struggle,” he says. “The camp’s just — deserted. They left some supplies, so I guess they might come back, but the werewolf attack was just a coincidence. I think.”

“You _think_.”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know, okay? I’ve warded the camp, so we can stay here tonight. The smell of dead werewolves should be enough of a deterrent anyway.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Dean says. But also probable. Werewolves were like any animals; they didn’t like the smell of death, especially the death of their own kind. Dean had encountered enough werewolf packs in his years on the road to know that much. Once you killed one, the others weren’t likely to come back. They’d go after easier prey instead.

“How are you feeling?” Sam throws Dean a concerned glance, and Dean tries not to read too much into it.

“Fine,” he admits. “Better. Hungry.”

Sam nods. “There’s dried meat and beer in the storage shed,” he says. “Canned fruit, too. Just let me check your bandages.”

“Food first, bandages later,” Dean insists, and Sam reluctantly agrees.

Sam finds the food while Dean tends the fire, then Dean lets Sam sit him down on a log to eat while Sam kneels down behind him to take a look at his wounds. Dean tries not to appreciate the warmth of the fire as Sam gets him naked from the waist up again, and he really tries not to enjoy the feel of Sam’s hands on his naked skin, but it’s pretty much a lost cause. The combination of a warm fire, food in his stomach, the buzz the beer gives him, and Sam’s soothing touch makes Dean nearly moan with pleasure. He knows there’s something wrong with him to feel this content under these circumstances, but it is what it is. If he died now, he’d die a happy man.

They take turns tending the fire through the night, and toward morning they curl up together for warmth on Dean’s bedroll, under the blankets Sam retrieved from the longhouse.

“Remember when we used to do this when we were kids?” Dean can’t help asking. They’re lying on their sides, facing the fire, Sam’s back a strong, solid wall of warmth under the blankets. Dean snuggles close, spooning Sam’s slender body, and although he’s taller now, they still fit together, just like they always did. Sam even smells the same, with a little manly sweat, blood, and dirt mixed in.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, pressing back against Dean just like he did when they were small.

“You had nightmares about the fire, but you always slept better this way,” Dean murmurs, nosing into the back of Sam’s neck and breathing deep.

“Yeah. Felt safe like this.”

“I tried so hard to keep you safe, all those years,” Dean says. His heart swells with love, with the loss and longing of years spent apart.

“I know,” Sam whispers. “You did that, Dean. I was always safe with you.”

_Until I fell in love with you,_ Dean’s brain reminds him. _Until I wanted more than just this. Until I found out we were brothers and I realized what a monster I am._

Dean scoots back, lets out a huff of disgust at himself, trying to put an inch of space between them.

Sam scoots right back into him, obviously needing the physical contact and the feeling of security it provides, and Dean can’t pull away again. He can’t let Sam think he doesn’t want to be close, doesn’t want to let him have that feeling of safety, that feeling of being loved by someone. It’s just not in him to deny Sam that. Especially not now that they’ve found each other again.

So Dean lies still, lets Sam snuggle into the cradle of his body, lets Sam sleep that way. The kid deserves his rest, after everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours. It’s the least Dean can do.


	2. Chapter 2

**//**//**

When he wakes up, he’s cold and his back itches. Sam’s gone again, and Dean panics for a minute until he sees Sam moving out of the shadows of the longhouse, small book clutched in his hand.

“It’s Mary’s spell book,” he explains as he squats down next to Dean. “She left it. I think she meant for me to find it.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean fights down his jealousy by sitting up, pulling the blanket around him.

“She always takes it with her,” Sam says. “Besides her journal, it’s the most important thing she owns.”

Dean reaches a hand out, and Sam lifts an eyebrow, clutches the book more tightly for a brief moment before handing it over.

“It’s in Gaelic,” he says as Dean opens the book, flips through the pages. “And Latin, of course. And transliterated Navajo, Lakota, Nez Perce, about a dozen other Native languages. Nothing in English.”

“Huh.” Dean hands the book back to Sam. “I guess I won’t be reading it, then.” He rolls his shoulders and gazes longingly at the nearest tree to rub his itching back on. “So the healing spell you did for my back...”

“It’s in here, yeah,” Sam nods. “It’s in ancient Wampanoag, passed down through generations, tweaked to perfection on thousands of patients. You should be fine in a couple of days.”

“I think I might be fine _now_ ,” Dean says, reaching over his shoulder, barely resisting the urge to scratch. “It itches like crazy.”

Sam takes his arm, guides him to sit on the log while Sam removes the blanket and unwinds the bandages to examine Dean’s back. He touches the leather cord with the little brass protection amulet that he gave Dean ten years ago, and Dean knows he’s remembering the day he gave it to him. He’s guessing that Dean has worn it every day since, under his shirt, and he’d be right.

Dean sighs as Sam’s gentle hands brush over his newly-healed skin, wiggles into the touch in an attempt to get Sam to apply more pressure.

“Harder, Sammy,” he pleads. “I need a good scratch.”

Sam huffs out a breath. “Well, I can see why it feels that way. You heal fast. Must be Mary’s blood in your veins.”

 _It’s in yours, too,_ Dean wants to say. But he doesn’t. Mary had her reasons for keeping that information from Sam, and until Dean finds out what that is, he feels compelled to honor that.

“Hey, did Mom ever say anything about the family curse? I mean, does she know what it is?”

Sam slathers something cool and wet onto Dean’s back, but says nothing, so Dean twists around to look at him, making him stop.

Sam’s slanted hazel eyes look troubled. He shakes his head and pushes Dean’s shoulders to get him to turn around again, stubbornly fixated on the job of applying the salve to Dean’s back.

“No, she didn’t,” he says as he works. “And I didn’t ask. It’s not my business.”

 _It sure as hell is,_ Dean thinks. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to find her and ask,” he says out loud.

Sam sits back on his haunches and says nothing again, so Dean twists around to look at him.

“What?”

Sam huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “You’re not going to find her, Dean.”

“What do you mean? Of course I am.”

“Not if she doesn’t want to be found. You see the kind of magic she uses.” Sam sweeps an arm around, taking in the camp that wasn’t visible when they first arrived. “She’s spent a lifetime hiding out, being unseen. Hell, she could be here right now and we’d never know it.”

Dean looks around wildly. “Where? Here? She’s here right _now?_ ”

“No, no, I don’t think so. I mean, she _could_ be. She’s that good. But no, I think she’s moved on. She left her spell book for me to find. She wants me to move on, too. My training is done.”

“What do you mean, she’s moved on?” Panic rises in his chest, and for a moment Dean can’t breathe. “You mean she’s disappeared again? For how long?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I just know this is what she does. I’ve seen her let kids go before, when they hit their eighteenth birthdays. She sends them on a quest, then she packs up the rest of us and leaves. We never go back. There are camps like this one all over the West.”

“But she left food, supplies...”

“For us, I guess,” Sam shrugs. “Or other mages who stumble on the camp and need a place to stay for a few nights. Anyone with the right sensitivity to recognize there’s a camp here can use this place.”

“Oh, ‘the right sensitivity’,” Dean mocks. “So is that something you had to acquire? Or were you just born with it?”

“A little of both, actually,” Sam shrugs. “You’ve got it, too, or you wouldn’t have been able to work all those spells back on the farm.”

Dean thinks back on those days when he used the notebook his mother left him to ward the family farm and to weave growing spells into the soil. It had been a good few years, before his dad died and everything went to Hell.

“Never really thought about it,” Dean shrugs. “It’s just something I could do.”

“Well, not everybody can,” Sam says. “You got it from your mom, obviously. God knows where I got it.”

Dean winces. It’s literally on the tip of his tongue to tell Sam the truth about his parentage, but he looks away instead. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, studying him, but when he looks up, Sam looks away. He’s blushing, Dean realizes. It’s a good look on him.

It occurs to Dean that he’ll do anything to keep Sam looking at him like that.

Which means, Sam can never know they’re brothers.

Which means, Dean’s a sick son-of-a-bitch.

“So, what now, Magic Man?” Dean asks. “Obviously, you can handle a gun. I taught you that. Do you have other hunter skills? Or are you all about the witchcraft now?”

“I know a few things,” Sam admits, and Dean lets his eyes roam over Sam’s long, lean body. There’s muscle already forming on his upper body. Dean could feel the strength in his arms and chest when they slept together last night. Sam’s got serious endurance and seems to be able to do hard physical labor with minimal nourishment, if the work it took to build the funeral pyre for the werewolves is any indication. Dean’s impressed.

“So we hunt,” Dean says. “We look for Mom. We let Bobby know I found you...”

“I can’t go back to Lawrence,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I’m still a wanted man. Bobby’s the sheriff there now. He’ll have to arrest me.”

“So we show them how much more valuable you are alive than dead,” Dean says with confidence. “We show them what Sam Winchester can do.”

“Maybe,” Sam says. He ducks his head bashfully, grinning ear to ear, and Dean decides he’ll do anything to make Sam smile like that, as often as possible. “But it’s Campbell now. Mary thought it would be safer if I took her maiden name.”

They share a breakfast of dried meat and fruit and wash it down with the last of the water in Dean’s canteen. Dean pulls a shirt out of his pack and puts it on, forgoing the bandages now that the wounds have closed, then shrugs on his shredded jacket and hat. He helps Sam mend the roof on the storage shed, then stuffs his pack with as much food as he can carry.

Sam rolls his eyes. “There’s another camp about a day’s walk from here,” he says. “There’ll be food there. No need to weigh ourselves down. Plus, I’ve got my traps and my knife if we want to eat something fresh.”

Dean shakes his head. “Never walk into the wilderness unprepared,” he says, quoting his father. “You never know when you might lose your way.”

“I never get lost,” Sam says.

“Never?” Dean’s skeptical. He raises an eyebrow, and Sam blushes and ducks his head.

Dean could get used to this.

“Not anymore,” Sam admits. “I’ve learned how to read the signs.”

“Signs?”

“Yeah, you know. The stars at night, the angle of the sun during the day, which side of the trees have moss growing on them. Natural signs.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean scoffs. “And what if it’s a cloudy night or a cloudy day? What if you’re in the middle of Kansas and there are no trees?”

“There are always trees, Dean.” Sam says. “Even in Kansas. They grow wherever there’s water. And water always flows toward the ocean.”

“You sure about that?” They’re on the move, Sam in the lead, moving swift and sure-footed as he did two nights ago. Sam warded the camp, made it invisible again before they left, and Dean’s jealous. He needs to learn to do that. “I know of a river in Wisconsin that flows upstream, heard of one in Montana, too, although I’ve never been there so I can’t say for sure.”

“Exceptions, Dean. Those are exceptions. For the most part, rivers on this side of the Rockies flow South, or East when you get past the Mississippi.”

“I’ll bet you know which mushrooms are poisonous, too,” Dean suggests, watching Sam’s big shoulders rise and fall as he leads the way down a steep ravine.

“I do, actually. I know which ones can be smoked or eaten for medicinal purposes, too.”

“I’ll bet you do,” Dean huffs, struggling to keep up. The salve Sam put on his back has helped with the itching, but now his head hurts again. He’s grateful when they reach the stream at the bottom of the ravine and stop to drink. As Dean refills his canteen, Sam washes the dirt and dried blood off his hands and face. He slicks his hair back.

“What happened to Romulus?” Dean asks. Sam’s horse was the twin of Dean’s. They’d raised them together, two fillies as wild and free as the boys had been, all those years ago. The four of them had made quite a team, as Bobby had noted on more than one occasion.

“I let her go on the plains before we headed into these mountains, same as you,” Sam says. Dean understands. The mountains are crawling with werewolves who couldn’t care less whether the creatures they kill are human or animal. It’s no place for a horse.

“Think they’ll find each other?” Dean asks.

Sam cups his hands in the water, brings his cupped hands to his mouth and drinks before he answers.

“Maybe. I hope so.”

“Those horses are twice as faithful as we are,” Dean says.

“I’m faithful, Dean.” Sam frowns. “I left to come find you as soon as I could. I didn’t let a day go by.”

“No, just six years,” Dean snorts. “ _Six years,_ Sammy. I spent every minute of every one of those years looking for you. Every minute.”

Sam looks down at his hands, wipes his palms on his trousers. “I know that now, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, didn’t it ever occur to you, in all that time, that I had promised to look for you? The last time you saw me, I promised. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it did,” Sam insists. “I just — when she said she talked to you and you wanted me to stay away, I thought you’d changed your mind. And it made sense to me.”

“How? Huh? How in the hell could it ever make sense for me to stay away from you? Huh?”

Sam takes a deep breath, lets out a long sigh. “After what I did to Adam, I figured you’d decided you never wanted to see me again.” Sam looks up, and his gaze is fierce. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat, Dean. I’d do it again, to save you.”

Dean says nothing for a moment. Remembering his half-brother is always painful. Dean has mixed feelings about his death even now, six years later. On the one hand, he’s sorry he and Adam never got a chance to know each other as adults. Although they’d probably never be friends, they might at least have made peace with each other, at some point. They were both John’s sons, after all. Dean looked up to his big brother once, so long ago now he can barely remember, but he knows he did.

On the other hand, Dean’s relieved Adam’s dead. It makes him feel guilty as hell to admit it, but that’s how it is.

“I know you would, Sammy,” Dean nods. “I always knew I could trust you to have my back. We’re each other’s best friends. That’s always been true.”

Sam nods. “So I let myself think that, for a while, and then when you didn’t come, I thought you must’ve decided it was for my own good.”

Dean’s stomach swoops, his perverted mind going instantly to that moment six years ago in the barn, the night of the fire. The night Dean realized he was in love with this boy.

Sam knows.

“You figured I was safer with your mom,” Sam goes on, and it takes Dean a minute to catch up, to get his mind out of the gutter long enough to hear what Sam’s saying. “Mary knowing how to stay hidden and unfindable is a real asset when you’re a twelve-year-old kid who’s wanted by the law. I figured you stayed away to keep me safe. It’s what you always did.”

“She kept you too well hidden, Sammy,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I thought you were dead.”

“I see that now, Dean, and I’m sorry.”

“Well, we gotta find her.” Dean’s never been so sure of anything. “I need to talk to her.”

Sam bites his lip and runs a hand through his hair, and Dean tries not to stare. Really, he does.

“Not sure how easy that’ll be,” Sam says finally.

“I don’t care how _easy_ it is,” Dean growls, angrier than he expected to be. “It’s what I need to do. It’s what _we_ need to do. I need her to explain what’s going on.”

“Dean, I’m not sure that’ll be possible,” Sam says, shaking his head. “She’s really good at staying lost when she wants to be.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you,” Dean says. “Her wonder-kid. Her specially-trained hound dog.”

“Dean...”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? She taught you all she knows, right? You know her tricks better than anyone.”

“It’s not like that,” Sam says. “When she wants to stay lost from someone in particular, she’s twice as good. And it’s my guess she doesn’t want to be found by anybody, but especially by you.”

Dean’s sharpening his knife, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Sam says that last part. He lays the knife down, careful and deliberate.

“She’s my mother, Sam.”

It’s a dirty play. Mary’s Sam’s mother, too, but Dean’s not saying that. He’s holding his superiority over the younger man. He’s reminding Sam that he’s not family, even though Dean knows damn well he is.

Dean feels sick, but he doesn’t take it back. There’s too much at stake.

“I know.” Sam’s voice is small, sad. Dean’s just reminded him that he’s the outsider, the one who doesn’t belong. Mary may have trained him, given him knowledge Dean doesn’t have, but Dean has the ultimate claim on Mary’s affection.

And for whatever reason, Mary chose to keep it that way.

Dean’s being a dick and he knows it. But he needs Mary to explain to him why he just spent six years of his life searching for his little brother, most of it thinking Sam was dead. He deserves that. She owes him that.

“She’s all the family I’ve got left,” Dean says. _Because my dad’s dead and you killed my brother,_ he might as well have added, for the way Sam’s shoulders shrink, the way he curls into himself a little more.

Sam huffs out a breath, ducks his head. “I know.” His voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper.

Dean waits, guilt prickling at the back of his neck like nettles. “She must be real proud of you,” he says finally, the words slipping out without thinking. “To teach you so much, to take you under her wing like that. She must really think highly of you.”

It’s a peace offering. Dean hates making Sam feel small, a misfit, less important in his adopted family. It shouldn’t be that way. It isn’t, no matter why Mary decided to keep Sam’s birthright a secret. He’d do anything to make Sam feel like he really belonged, short of betraying his mother.

Sam takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he says. “She seems sad. I think I remind her of you. She misses you.”

“She’s got a funny way of showing it,” Dean grouses.

“She gave up raising you to keep you safe, Dean,” Sam says. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that. What she did when she left you and your dad, that was because she had to. I don’t know why she told me you wanted me to stay with her, but I have to believe that was to keep you safe, too. You’re the most important thing in her life, Dean. The only family she has.”

 _Well, not quite,_ Dean thinks. “Well, at least we have something in common,” he says instead. _We have a lot more in common that you know,_ he adds silently.

This is getting weirdly difficult, maintaining two separate truths. Because Sam really _is_ his brother, but he’s also the person Dean loves most in the world. And maybe those two truths shouldn’t be mutually exclusive, but in Dean’s experience they are. Dean’s brother Adam was a bastard (and he doesn’t mean illegitimate son), about the most unlovable person Dean’s ever known. In Dean’s experience, brothers aren’t the close kin they’re supposed to be.

“My mother didn’t give me up,” Sam says quietly. “She died. That’s different.”

“Not really,” Dean shrugs. “The effect’s the same. You and me, we both grew up without a mom. Now, that doesn’t make us special. I know plenty of hunters who can say the same. But it’s the thing that brought us together. It’s part of the bond we had as kids.”

At least _that_ much is true. Long before Dean knew that Sam was his brother, Dean loved him. A deep part of him believed he would always love Sam, maybe more than he should, but that’s how it was. Finding out he and Sam shared the same blood only made that love more intense. And forbidden, of course, which would be a problem only if Dean let the cat out of the bag.

He’s got no intention of letting that happen.

Sam smiles. He’s still staring down at the water, crouched on his haunches in his soft leather boots and calf-skin trousers, his long hair curling around his ears and neck. His high cheekbones cut shadows in his cheeks, and his smile makes his dimples show. He looks like a Native, with his brown skin and dark hair. If Dean didn’t know him, he would think Sam belonged here, out in the wilderness. He would think Sam had been born and raised here.

“I remember,” Sam says, and Dean blinks, clearing his vision. “It was a great way to grow up. All that physical labor. All the learning and studying. Remember the Knights of the Round Table?”

“Of course I do.” Dean smiles at the memory. “I used to read that to you and Jo. You loved that one.”

“I did,” Sam agrees. “ _Treasure Island_ , too.”

“That was later,” Dean recalls. “Just you and me. Jo was in school.”

Sam nods. “How’s she doing?”

“She and her mom run a roadhouse about a mile out of town,” Dean says. “Every hunter who passes through drops in there. It’s how the town gets its news. Ellen and Jo provide a real service. I don’t think the town could’ve survived this long without them.”

Sam sucks in a breath, and Dean looks at him curiously.

“What?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing. I just thought...” he glances sideways at Dean, and Dean catches the flush in his cheeks, the way his smile broadens bashfully. “I just thought you and she might... You know. Maybe you would’ve married her by now.”

Dean’s so shocked it takes a minute for him to recover. “Me and Jo? Are you kidding me? She’s like a little sister. I’d never!”

Sam shrugs and looks down at the water again, but Dean could have sworn he saw a brief look of relief in his eyes. It makes his back itch.

“So you never... You’re not... “ Sam gestures, like he can’t say the words, but Dean understands.

“What, married? Me?” He frowns. “Nah. Too much moving around. Spent the last six years looking for _you,_ remember?” He blushes as soon as he says it. It’s true, but it makes him sound like a lovesick puppy. Which he is, if he’s honest with himself, but of course he doesn’t want Sam to get the wrong idea.

Sam lets out a breath, grinning ear-to-ear like he can’t help himself, and Dean sneaks a glance at those dimples again, decides he’ll do whatever it takes to keep them there.

“What about you? You got a girl?”

Sam’s grin fades. He shakes his head, his blush deepening so that even the tip of his nose turns red.

“No,” he says softly. “No girl.”

The way he says it makes Dean do a double-take. “Or a guy maybe?” He’s heard of such things. He knows a couple of male hunters who are a couple. Ceasar and Jesse.

“No!” Sam huffs. He shakes his head again, irritated, and Dean can’t help himself.

“Wait, you’re not a virgin, are you? I mean, I know it’s not easy finding a little action out here in the woods, but there’s gotta be somebody...?”

“Can we not talk about this?” Sam stands. “We’ve still got another hour before sundown. We should go.”

He turns and heads into the woods before Dean can answer, so all Dean can do is grab his pack and hurry after him.

“Geez, Sammy. Don’t be so sensitive! I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s fine if you’re a virgin. I’m not trying to give you a hard time. Just surprised, is all.”

Sam stops so abruptly Dean almost runs into him. He turns and glares at Dean, and Dean’s momentarily intimidated. The kid is big. Really big.

“Why? What’s surprising about it? You think just because I’m not good-looking like you I can’t get sex if I want it?”

Dean shakes his head vehemently. “No! Not at all. You’re just about the most handsome man I ever saw. The girls must be lining up to get a little attention from you.”

Sam’s got his hand up, ready to point his finger at Dean in an angry gesture, but he backs down at Dean’s words.

“You think I’m handsome?”

It’s Dean’s turn to blush. He’s been caught red-handed giving his feelings away when all he meant to do was boost Sam’s confidence. In a big-brother way.

“Sure, Sammy,” he stammers. “I mean, look at you. If you haven’t seen a mirror for a while, you could look into a lake or something. It’s pretty obvious. I mean, you could use a little more weight, maybe. You’re skinny as a beanpole. But I can’t imagine anybody turning you away if you asked them nicely.” He lets his gaze sweep over Sam’s tall, slender frame, forcing himself to assess his brother as objectively as possible. “Or maybe not so nicely.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got somebody in mind,” Sam says, puffing out his chest. “I’m just not sure it’s the right time.”

“Oh.” A hot flash of jealousy stabs through Dean’s head, making his vision turn red. “Sure. That’s fine. Real fine. She’s a lucky girl. Or guy. Whichever.”

It shocks him to feel suddenly so insecure. Sam belongs to _Dean,_ always has, and the mere thought of Sam forming relationships with anyone else makes Dean a little crazy. It shouldn’t, he knows. The kid’s free to love anyone. Hell, he’s been living with Dean’s mom for the past six years, forming ties with a group of young hunters Dean’s never even met. Maybe one of them has caught Sam’s attention. Maybe one of them has earned his affection.

Dean wants to hit something. He wants to punch the lights out of anybody who’s managed to make Sam fall in love with them.

He hates himself for feeling this way. It’s wrong. Sam’s free to love anyone he wants, and Dean should be happy for him. Dean should encourage that.

It’s just that sick, perverted part of himself that can’t. He’s a monster for wishing Sam would never fall in love, for hoping that Sam would never want anyone else, just because Dean can’t stand the idea of sharing his brother with any other human being. Not even a wife, or a lover.

Especially not a lover.

Sam’s face falls. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” he mutters. “It’s never gonna happen.” He turns and starts off into the woods again, and Dean follows, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.

“Sure it is, Sammy,” he says, drumming up encouragement that he doesn’t feel. “When the time’s right, like you said. It’ll happen, you’ll see. You just gotta give it time.”

Sam doesn’t answer, but his back straightens a little. His shoulders don’t sag as much. Dean can’t see his face, but he imagines Sam looks a little less glum than he did a moment before.

Just after sunset Sam brings them to another hidden camp, this one considerably smaller than the first. There’s only a lean-to shelter built into the side of the hill with a supply depot dug into the soil and covered with rocks. The shelter’s barely big enough for two people, but once Sam lays down blankets and pulls out a tarp from the supply hole to cover the opening, it’s cozy enough. Dean cleans his gun while Sam lays spells around the campsite. He mutters under his breath as he lights a fire.

“Isn’t that a little risky?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head. “It’s gonna be cold tonight, and we need a cooking fire for the rabbit I caught.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Rabbit?”

Sam gives him a lopsided grin under hooded brows and Dean’s instantly hard. Sam looks like he’s about to reveal a secret and it’s a good one. It’s the sexiest thing Dean’s ever seen.

“Watch the fire,” he says as he gets up and heads into the darkness of the surrounding forest. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sammy?”

Dean only has a couple of minutes to panic before Sam returns. He’s carrying a dead rabbit, its feet caught in a leather snare. Dean watches in amazement as Sam lays the carcass down, skins and guts it in two minutes flat, then ties it to a makeshift spit and hangs it over the fire to cook.

“Wow, that’s some fancy trapping,” Dean remarks, pride and amazement in his voice.

Sam smiles, pleased with himself. “I laid the trap last week on a scouting trip,” he says. “I had a feeling there’d be something in it tonight.”

“You had a feeling, huh?” Dean shakes his head. “More of that sensitivity thing you were talking about?”

Sam shrugs. “Sometimes, I catch little glimpses of the future. Nothing big. Not like your mother’s visions.”

“Huh.” Dean watches as Sam scrounges through the supplies stash for cooking utensils. “She still has those?”

“Yeah.” Sam finds a fork, holds it as he stares into the fire. “Not a lot, but yeah.”

“Huh.” Dean stares into the fire, too, watches as the grease drips, making the flames spit and hiss. “She ever tell you about them?”

Sam shifts, scrunches up his face, and doesn’t look at Dean. “Not really. I mean, she mentioned them, when they happened. Sometimes she...”

“What?” Dean presses. “She what?”

“She woke up screaming a couple of times,” Sam admits. “I always figured it was bad dreams, normal stuff. But one time she told me she could skin walk.”

“Skin walk?” Dean’s heard stories about skinwalkers, but he’s never known one. He thought they weren’t human.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs. “When she sleeps, sometimes she’s inside an animal. An eagle, or a wolf. She sees humans — Natives and Settlers together — held in camps, watched over by some kind of creature she doesn’t know. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They look human, but they feed on the humans. They control the werewolves and other monsters. They don’t see her when she’s in her animal form, but sometimes one of them senses her, looks right at her, and — “

Sam hesitates, frowning as he concentrates. Dean wants to wipe the frown away, wants to smooth the furrows from Sam’s brow. He wants to touch Sam so bad his fingers itch.

“And what, Sam?” he coaxes.

“And their eyes are white,” Sam says. “Not like they have no pupils or irises. Just that there’s this white light shining out of them. But only when they look at her. It’s like they’re using some extra-sensory perception. It makes her crash. She literally falls if she’s flying or perched somewhere, so she wakes up screaming.”

“Does she think it’s real?” Dean asks. “I mean, does she think she’s seeing something that’s happening right now? Or is it some kind of vision?”

Sam shakes his head. “She’s not sure. These things don’t feature in her waking visions. Those are all about people close to her, she says.”

“Well, does she recognize anyone in the sleeping visions?” Dean asks. “Any of the humans?”

Sam shakes his head again. “She’s not sure if it’s because she’s an animal in those dreams, and the animal doesn’t distinguish one human face from another, but when she tries to recall details after she wakes up, she can’t.”

“Landscapes? Seasons? Topography?”

“It varies,” Sam says. “Sometimes it’s summer, sometimes winter. The landscape is mountainous, but not like any mountains around here. She thinks it might be someplace up north, in Canada maybe.”

“Well, I gotta say, that’s not much to go on,” Dean says. He tosses a twig into the fire, watches as the flames catch it. It burns brightly for a moment, then turns black as it crumbles into ash.

Sam doesn’t answer, but he purses his lips and looks worried, which isn’t okay at all.

“Hey, I’ve got some hooch,” Dean announces cheerfully. “Wanna celebrate?” He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask, pulls the cork out and offers it to Sam.

Sam looks skeptical. “What are we celebrating?”

“Your birthday,” Dean says. “Our reunion. Whatever you want.” Whatever takes that troubled look off Sam’s beautiful face.

Sam takes the flask, dangles it delicately between his long thumb and forefinger, and hesitates.

“What’s the matter? Never had a drink before?” Dean teases, but the look Sam gives him tells him he’s hit the nail on the head. “Wow. A virgin in every way.”

“I am not!” Sam protests. “I’ve had booze before.”

He lifts the flask to his lips, sips too fast and too much at once, and chokes.

Dean chuckles as he pounds Sam on the back, grabbing the flask before Sam drops it. He takes a stiff swallow for himself while Sam coughs, eyes watering.

“That’s awful!” Sam sputters, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah, it’s pretty raw,” he admits. “Want some more?”

“No! I’m good.” Sam wheezes as he struggles to breathe. Dean hands Sam his canteen so Sam can take a sip of water to chase the burn, rubbing Sam’s back as he swallows. Sam’s back is broad and strong, warm through his homespun shirt. They’re sitting on a log, pressed together from knee to thigh, and Dean leaves his hand on Sam’s back long after the younger man stops coughing.

“I missed you,” Sam says when he’s got his breath back. He wipes his watering eyes with the back of his hand, blinks rapidly as he watches the fire. “Dreamed about you, too. A lot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, stroking his hand up Sam’s back to his neck, into his hair. He had dreamed about Sam, too, especially after he’d decided the kid couldn’t possibly be alive. Those dreams had been gut-wrenching. He’d woken up crying after every one.

“Did you...?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “I dreamed about you, too.”

In his mind’s eye he sees a dream image of a brown-skinned boy on a horse, galloping bareback across a sun-drenched prairie, long dark hair streaming out behind him. He sees the boy hunting, a silver knife clutched in his fist. He recalls another image, this one of the boy when he’s older, standing thigh-deep in a stream, catching live fish in a homemade net. He sees the boy grown tall and lean, reading by candlelight, his face set in concentration. He sees him sleeping in a homemade hammock, long limbs curled in so that his knees are sticking out over the edges.

That last one was just last month, shortly before he decided to end it all.

“I saw you in a saloon in Texas,” Sam says. “About three years ago. You were with a red-headed woman named Sunny.”

It was the night Dean lost his virginity, not something he’d be likely to forget. Sunny had been almost twice his age and a mother of two young children. She took him in because she could see how lonely he was, just after Bobby gave up the search for Sam and headed back to Lawrence.

“So you’re saying some of your dreams are visions,” Dean suggests. “Like Mom’s.”

Sam lifts his eyes and turns his head. They’re sitting very close, and Sam’s hair brushes Dean’s hand.

“I didn’t know,” he admits. “I couldn’t confirm anything, and I knew they might just be regular dreams.”

“Well, that one wasn’t,” Dean says. “That one happened.” He doesn’t elaborate, but he can’t stop the blush that creeps up his neck and spreads north to the tips of his ears. Sam’s gaze shifts to Dean’s ears and he smiles.

“But you didn’t stay with her,” he says softly.

Dean ducks his head and smiles bashfully. “She was kind to me,” he says. “I was sad and lonely and she took me in. Let me stay at her place for a week. She had a couple of kids and a husband who’d gone missing, so we had something in common.”

He sneaks a peak at Sam’s face, reads the fond amusement there and shakes his head.

“Nah, I couldn’t stay,” he says. “Had to find you.”

Sam’s gaze drops to Dean’s mouth and Dean licks his lips. The air seems charged. Dean tightens his hold on the back of Sam’s neck, almost tugging on him, half hoping he’ll lean closer on his own. The liquor warms his insides, rolling around in his belly, making him hungry and horny at the same time.

The grease hisses and pops, and Dean startles and pulls away, jumping to his feet like he just got bit.

“Gotta take a leak,” he mutters, not looking at Sam as he scurries to the edge of the trees, out of the light of the campfire.

 _Can’t get drunk,_ he tells himself as he relieves himself. _Can’t let my guard down._

He takes another minute to stare up at the stars, grounding himself with a couple of deep breaths before he returns to Sam.

Sam’s managed to turn the rabbit on the spit. Dean sits back down on the log, keeping his distance this time, and Sam doesn’t even glance at him. Dean watches as Sam cuts up a couple of potatoes and carrots from the supply stash and puts them in a pan on the fire, near enough to catch some of the grease. He’s almost relaxed, letting the companionable silence lull him into complacency, when Sam speaks.

“Did you mean it when you said I was handsome?”

The question throws Dean for a minute, but the answer’s easy.

“Of course I did,” he says. “You are. You got nothing to worry about in the looks department, Sammy.”

“But you like girls,” Sam says quietly.

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “You saw me and Sunny,” he shrugs.

“Do you do that a lot? Go with girls, I mean.”

Dean shrugs again. “Not like I get a lot of chances to meet up with anybody. Not in my line of work. Hunting’s not exactly a social activity.”

Sam nods. “But if you had a choice, you definitely prefer girls.”

“Never really thought about it,” Dean admits. “But if you’re worried that I might think less of you because you like boys, hey. That’s not the way it is between us, Sammy. I’m happy for you to like whoever you want to like.”

Sam screws his face up, and Dean can’t tell whether he’s annoyed or just frustrated. “You didn’t answer the question, Dean.”

“There was a question?”

“I asked you if you liked girls more than boys,” Sam snaps.

“And I said I never really thought about it.” Dean frowns. “I like girls a lot, I know that.” Sam makes a little hurt noise, and Dean says quickly, “But I like _you_ , Sam. You’re my favorite. Remember when we were kids and we made our blood pledge?”

He’s changing the subject, forcing Sam to remember those innocent times to take his attention away from his dangerous line of thinking.

“I remember,” Sam smiles. “We cut our thumbs on the edge of your dad’s knife and rubbed the cuts together.”

Dean nods. “I told you, ‘we’re blood-bonded now, Sammy. Nobody can ever separate us.’”

“Yeah.” Sam sighs. “I was eight. You promised we’d always be together. You said you’d never leave me.”

“That’s right,” Dean says. “And I never will. Now that I’ve found you again, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, ever again. You hear me, Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam turns the rabbit on the spit one more time, blessedly silent again. Dean figures he’s remembering their childhood, and that’s safe. That’s about as scary as molasses on cornbread.

“So where are we headed tomorrow?” he asks. “You got any ideas where we can get a lead on Mom?”

“I’ve got an idea, yeah.” Sam nods. He stirs the vegetables in the pan, frying them evenly in the rabbit grease.

“You wanna share with the class, Professor?”

Sam shrugs. “There’s a guy I’ve heard of,” he says. “He lives about two days’ walk from here. They say he sees things.”

“So he’s another psychic? Like Mom?”

“Not exactly,” Sam says. He stabs at the rabbit, checking its doneness, decides to let it cook another minute as he stokes the fire and adds more fuel.

Dean watches him, waiting. Sam likes to take long pauses, apparently. Dean likes to watch him, so they’re even.

“He’s something else,” Sam says finally. “Something not quite human, from what I hear. He’s lived for a very long time.”

“Some kind of witch? Or a Native god of some kind?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam shrugs. “He helps people, so I don’t think he’s evil. I don’t know what he is, to be honest. His name is Castiel.”

“That’s different,” Dean comments. “Sounds Italian.”

“Or Latin.”

“You know Latin?” Dean’s impressed.

“A lot of the old spells are in Latin.” Sam nods. “Mary had an old Latin grammar book and she taught me some things.”

Dean fights another hot rush of jealousy, decides jealousy’s a safer emotion than some other things when it comes to Sam, and tosses a stick toward the fire, letting it hit Sam instead.

“Ow!” Sam rubs his shoulder, glares at Dean, and Dean shrugs, smirking.

“Sorry.”

Sam maintains his offended expression as he pokes the rabbit again and pronounces it done.

They don’t talk much as they occupy themselves with eating and drinking over the next hour. Dean’s never been so hungry. He devours his portion with his bare hands, wiping grease off his chin and sucking on his fingers one by one to lick the grease off. Even the vegetables are delicious. 

_There’s nothing like eating when you’re hungry,_ he hears Ellen’s voice in his mind, and he’s suddenly overcome with homesickness.

He gnaws on the bones when the meat’s gone, sucking up the last of the flavor with relish, then swiping his sleeve across his face in lieu of a napkin. He smacks his lips with pleasure and sighs, leaning back against the log and stretching his legs out toward the fire.

When he looks up and catches Sam staring at him, it occurs to him that he was probably enjoying his food a little too much.

“That was good,” he says by way of excuse. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing grease across his lips, and smiles broadly at Sam. “That’s some fine cooking, right there. You’ll make somebody a real good wife someday.”

“Shut up.” Sam blushes, ducks his head, and dimples beautifully. He can’t help it, Dean’s sure.

They’re both feeling well-fed and happy, relieved to be together again. They’re obviously attracted to each other, but not pressured to act on it because they’re happy to lounge around and just be together. It almost feels normal. Dean’s pretty sure he could get used to being with Sam like this. He might even be able to live with not having Sam in all the ways he wants.

Living with Sam without acting on his desire could become their new normal.

They clean up, feed the fire, and sit back to share another sip from Dean’s flask. Sam checks Dean’s back, and Dean enjoys the feeling of Sam’s hands sweeping over his skin a little too much. He hides his erection under his blanket, watching as Sam lays salt lines and fresh warding around the camp before coming to bed.

They snuggle together under the blanket, huddling inside the small shelter in case it rains during the night. Dean lets Sam spoon him because Sam’s bigger and it’s less awkward and they need each other’s body heat if they hope to get any sleep. It’s practical.

Sam breathes into the back of Dean’s head, tucking his knees up behind Dean’s. He clamps one of his tree-trunk arms across Dean’s chest, pinning him in place. Dean’s erection rages but he concentrates on steadying his breathing, not thinking about Sam’s crotch pressed against his ass.

Eventually, Sam’s breath evens out and his arm becomes a dead weight. Dean curls his arm around Sam’s and laces their fingers together, holding Sam’s arm against him like the stuffed bear he used to hold as a child, after his mother left but before Sam came to live with them.

After Sam arrived, Dean never needed the stuffed toy again.

He squeezes Sam’s hand and holds it tight as he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

**//**//**

In the morning, following a breakfast of boiled carrots and rabbit, Dean helps Sam clean up and ward the camp. Dean‘s surprised how many of the protection spells are familiar to him, and with Sam’s encouragement he lays the final warding all by himself.

“It’s just like riding a horse,” Dean comments as Sam nods. “Once you know how, you never forget.” 

“Exactly.”

Dean watches as Sam weaves the invisibility spell, silently memorizing the words and inflections with newfound confidence.

“See? You’re a natural,” Sam comments as they make their way out of the camp, heading north along the trailhead.

Dean shakes his head. “I just assumed it was all gone,” he admits. “I never had any use for those spells after we lost the farm, and Mom’s journal with the spells in it burned up in the fire, so I figured it was all gone.”

“It’s in your bones, Dean,” Sam says. “You were twelve when you started making magic, same as me. Mary says that age is key. If you start your training at twelve, you’ll never lose it. Your body _wants_ to remember, so even if you let it go for a few years, you’ll always be able to go back to it.”

“Her journal said she had her first visions when she was eight.” 

“She was special,” Sam says. “Her gifts manifested early.”

Dean watches Sam’s shoulders rise and fall as he turns and twists around boulders on the way up the incline and does his best to follow.

“You think her parents knew?” He asks, watching as Sam’s shoulders shrug.

“She never talked about her parents,” he said. “They died when she was young. I don’t think she remembers much about them.”

_Our grandparents._

“Did she ever talk much about her childhood? Growing up with Pastor Jim? Meeting Dad?”

“Sometimes,” Sam says. “I think she has a love-hate relationship with her visions.”

“How so?”

“Well, sometimes they gave her good news, like telling her she would marry your father,” Sam says. “Like she knew she would have you from the time she was a little girl.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s not sure he likes the sound of that. It sounds too much like destiny, which he’s learning to distrust on principle.

“On the other hand, after you were born she knew she had to leave you and your Dad. She knew terrible things would happen if she didn’t.”

“The Man,” Dean says, shivering involuntarily.

“Huh?” Sam’s head twists around. He pauses on the trail, grabbing onto a tree-limb for balance.

Dean stops in his tracks, panting a little with the effort to keep up with Sam’s long strides.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Her journal referred to The Man. If she didn’t leave us, The Man would come on November 2, 1883 and everything would repeat.”

Sam blinks. “My six-month birthday,” he notes, confused. “Why did she put that date in her journal?”

Dean shrugs. “That’s what her vision said,” he says. “She saw the date on the calendar in her vision.”

It confuses Dean, too. He can’t imagine why Sam’s birthday, sixth-month or otherwise, should have anything to do with something evil.

“What did she mean, ‘everything would repeat?’”

Dean shifts, rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. “I always assumed it meant the thing that killed her family would come for us,” he admits. “Like you said, she left to keep us safe. And obviously the thing didn’t come, that night or any night. We all survived.”

“Weird.”

Dean shrugs. “Definitely.”

Sam frowns, thinking for a minute. The incline has gotten steeper, and Dean realizes he’s giving them a breather before they start upwards again.

“Did her journal say anything else about The Man?”

Dean shakes his head. “I practically memorized that thing,” he admits. “I would remember if she mentioned him anywhere else. I was hoping she said something to you.”

“No. Nothing.” Sam turns away, starting up the trail again, and all Dean can do is follow.

They’re climbing so steeply now that there’s no more talking. By the end of an hour, Dean’s legs are shaking with effort, and the woods have become so thick they’re blocking out the sun. Not for the first time, Dean wonders how Sam can find his way through the trees. There doesn’t seem to be a trail at all anymore, and it’s dark, cold, and wet so far from the sun’s light. The ground underfoot is slippery, and Dean loses his footing more than once as he struggles to keep up.

He’s just about to call to Sam to slow down, give them a break, when Sam disappears over the top of the ridge.

“Hey!” Dean calls, panic swooping down over him on a blanket of cold, wet air. “Sammy, wait up!”

Dean scrambles up the ridge, slipping only once before reaching the top. As he pulls himself over to the other side, he doesn’t see Sam at first. The view is spectacular. A sprawling, sloping meadow stretches out in front of him to a distant line of trees, but the mountain range off to the left captures Dean’s attention so completely he momentarily forgets to look for Sam.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Sam’s behind him, sitting on a log, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Yeah.” Dean sits down beside him, messaging one leg at a time in an effort to work the cramps out. “Yeah, it is.”

“I couldn’t wait to show you,” Sam confesses, smiling shyly. “It’s still early spring, so you don’t get the full effect of this clearing full of summer flowers, but there’s still snow on the peaks so there’s that.”

Dean nods, taking a deep breath as he admires the view. “It’s really nice,” he agrees. “But you didn’t just make me climb all this way for the view, did you?”

“What? No!” Sam shakes his head. “It’s on the way. Castiel’s place is on the other side of that peak over there. This is as close as I’ve ever come. We can camp here tonight, head on over in the morning.”

Camping out in the open is risky, and they both know it. As the sun slips low in the sky, they lay extra salt lines and Sam weaves extra warding spells around the area before they build a campfire. They eat left-over rabbit and vegetables, and Dean shares his canteen and sips from his flask with Sam. Dean still can’t quite believe their fire can be hidden, but Sam insists it is, and when Dean leaves the circle to take a piss he watches the fire’s flame fade to darkness with amazement.

He takes a moment to admire the sky, bursting with stars, and feels rather than hears Sam move up behind him.

“It’s gorgeous,” he breathes.

Sam sucks in a breath. Dean can feel Sam’s heat against his back.

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice soft and reverent. “It is.”

A shiver runs up Dean’s spine. It’s effortless to turn just enough so that his shoulder presses into Sam’s chest, and when Sam’s hand slides up his arm to his cheek, Dean doesn’t pull away. Something about being out so far in the wilderness, where no other humans live or wander, makes Dean’s sense of propriety less vivid. There was always a wildness about the way Sam and Dean were raised, something less than civilized about their relationship. Sam’s brown skin and long hair makes him seem part of the landscape, less like Dean’s brother than ever. It’s easy to let Sam lean down, easy to let him tip Dean’s face up so that Dean’s staring into his eyes, watching the stars reflected there. Dean’s lips tremble and part in anticipation as Sam leans closer, and he closes his eyes just before Sam kisses him.

It’s so easy to give in to the moment and go with it. It’s so hard to end the kiss before it’s really begun. It’s much harder to push Sam gently away, harder still to step back, out of Sam’s warm arms. It’s all too hard, but he does it anyway.

“No. No, Sam.” He shakes his head, puts his hands out to keep Sam at bay, to stop him from gathering Dean into his arms again. He’s breathing hard and his lips are tingling. He knows he’s blushing because his cheeks are hot.

“Why not?” Sam’s confused. Hurt. Dean can hear it in his voice.

He looks up at Sam because Sam deserves it. He deserves an answer.

“You want it, too,” Sam insists. “It’s not just me.”

Dean shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, willing his voice not to shake. “We can’t do that. We just can’t.”

“Why not?” Sam asks again. “Is it because I’m a man?”

Dean huffs out a laugh. _If only._ “You’re like a little brother to me,” he says. “You know that.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Dean,” Sam protests. “I’m old enough to know what I want, and I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.”

“Sam.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut to block out the sight of Sam’s beautiful face, his sad, troubled eyes gazing at Dean with longing and accusation. “I made a promise, okay? I promised to look after you.”

“Yeah, when we were kids.” Sam huffs out a frustrated breath. “We’re not kids anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed. You’re not obligated to look after me anymore.”

“It’s not an obligation.” Dean shakes his head. “Watching out for you isn’t some kind of burden, Sam. It’s never been that way.”

Sam frowns. “What is it, then? Is there somebody else?”

“No! God, no.” Dean takes a deep breath. “I can’t explain it to you. You’re just gonna have to trust me.”

“Trust you? What does that even mean? Trust you to keep repressing your feelings because of some promise you made to look after me? What does that mean? How can not kissing me help you keep that promise? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You and me are meant to be together, Dean, and you know it. We’re supposed to be together. It’s always been that way.”

Sam gestures wildly as he stalks closer, and for a split second Dean thinks he’s going to get violent. Dean half expects to be grabbed, or hit. Maybe both. Sam’s frustration is palpable.

“Not like that, Sammy,” Dean says. “Not like that.”

“Why not?” Sam demands. “You want it, too, I can tell. You don’t think it’s a sin, you’re not involved with someone else, we’re both consenting adults, so what’s the matter?”

“I can’t tell you.” Dean shakes his head. “Please let that be enough.”

“I’m in love with you, Dean. I know you feel the same way. And you’re asking us to just repress that?”

Dean nods, closing his eyes again. He’s still half-hoping Sam will hit him. He deserves it.

“Yes, Sam. Yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

“You are going to have to do better than that,” Sam hisses. His voice has dropped, and when Dean glances up at him, his eyes flash. His fists are clenched. “You are definitely going to need to explain.”

“I can’t,” Dean repeats, shaking his head.

Sam tilts his chin, narrowing his eyes, considering. Then he sucks in a breath. “This is about my parentage, isn’t it?”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, and Sam nods sharply.

“I thought so. Mary told you something about where I came from, didn’t she? She made you keep it secret because it’s bad. It’s something bad. My mother was an evil witch, wasn’t she? Or a demon?”

“What makes you say that?” Dean’s shocked.

“I’ve always known,” Sam says. “There’s something wrong with me, deep down. Something evil. I can feel it.”

Dean’s heart sinks so fast it makes him dizzy. This isn’t something he could’ve anticipated.

“Sam...”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Sam goes on, ignoring Dean’s protest. “You don’t want to be contaminated by me. It’s the real reason you stayed away all these years...”

“Sam! Stop! That’s so wrong, you can’t imagine.” Dean steps closer, pressing a hand to Sam’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you, trust me! You’re perfect!”

“No, Dean,” Sam shakes his head. “I can see it in your face. You’re horrified by me.”

“No, I’m not! Sammy, if anything, _I’m_ the one who’s the monster here. I’m the sick one. I’m the one who lusts for someone I can’t have.”

Sam blinks, his tortured expression smoothing as he gazes down at Dean. He covers Dean’s hand with his and steps closer, and Dean can’t look away, can’t move. He’s mesmerized by the stars reflecting in Sam’s eyes again, and when Sam bends closer Dean’s eyes close of their own accord.

The kiss is gentle, careful, like Sam thinks Dean might bolt at any moment.

As if he could. As if Dean could pull away again now that he’s letting this happen for a second time. As if he ever would.

When Sam draws back it’s too soon. Dean leans up, chasing Sam’s lips, and Sam smiles against his mouth as Dean kisses him.

“You can have me,” Sam murmurs.

“No,” Dean moans. “No, we need to stop. I have to tell you something...”

“It can wait,” Sam murmurs as he kisses Dean deeply, making his head spin, making him forget his own name.

He knows he should make Sam stop, make him listen, but he can’t remember for the life of him what’s so important that Sam should stop doing this. Dean’s waited his whole life for this, and now that it’s happening he can’t stop. He won’t. It’s too good, too right. Everywhere Sam touches him feels alive, on fire. His lips are beyond tingling to complete numbness and still he goes on kissing, needing to devour Sam’s mouth as if it gave him the air and fuel his body needed to live.

In fact, he’s pretty sure it does.

Dean moans as Sam’s big hands slide down his back to cup his ass. His back doesn’t even itch anymore. He pushes his hands into Sam’s hair, holds his head as he lifts up on tiptoe to deepen the kiss. Sam squeezes his ass and Dean spreads his legs, inviting Sam’s long, probing fingers, half-hoping Sam might pick him up so Dean can wrap his legs around Sam’s waist.

When he does it, Dean gasps. His mouth slides along Sam’s scratchy cheek to his ear. He babbles incoherently, holding on for dear life as Sam carries him to the fire and lays him down on the blanket, then backs up on his knees as he starts to work removing Dean’s clothes as well as his own.

Dean watches the firelight play over Sam’s bronze skin, watches the way his hair shadows his face, watches as each tantalizing inch of skin becomes visible for his eyes to feast on. Sam’s long and lean everywhere, muscles tight and defined, a visual display of the strength in his arms and legs that Dean only just experienced when Sam carried him. He has the body of an older man, not the boy Dean expected or remembers.

Dean feels a stab of grief for that boy, gone and replaced by a full-grown adult without Dean being there to see it happen.

He lifts his hips as Sam pulls his trousers off, staring down at the long, fully erect cock swinging heavy from between Sam’s legs. When Sam’s big hand wraps around both dicks Dean gasps and arches up, his eyes closing with the intensity of the sensations exploding through him. Sam leans down and captures his mouth again, kissing and licking his lips as he strokes their cocks together.

Dean slides his hands down over Sam’s sweat-soaked back, encouraging, and it doesn’t take long. Dean whites out with the force of his orgasm, Sam’s long, low moan echoing in his ears as his belly and chest are striped by warm fluid.

Dean comes to with Sam’s heavy arm lying across his chest, Sam’s long leg tucked between his, Sam’s head tucked under his chin. He turns his head, burying his face in Sam’s soft hair, and kisses the top of his head as he adjusts the blanket to cover them both as well as he can.

Sam shifts, pressing his lips to Dean’s shoulder, and turns his face up.

“What were you going to tell me?” he asks, his flushed face and sparkling eyes driving Dean to distraction so that the moment’s gone before Dean can think straight.

Then it’s too late. He’s mortified by what he’s done, but he can’t think how to tell Sam now. It’s too late.

He pulls Sam’s face into his shoulder, kissing the top of his head again.

“Nothing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**//**//**

They wake up several times during the night, touching and kissing each other, and by morning they’ve both come twice more. Now that the floodgates are open on their feelings for each other, their desire and pleasure in each other’s bodies grows and grows. Dean can feel Sam in his sleep, his smooth, warm skin under Dean’s hands, his hair tickling Dean’s nose, his breath on Dean’s skin.

Sam’s there in his dreams, smiling up at him as he did when they were kids. Dean dreams of holding young child Sam as he sleeps, his small body fitting in Dean’s arms like a warm, comforting reminder of home. Little Sam shivers in his sleep, and Dean kisses the top of his head and rubs his back, soothing the boy after one of Sam’s many nightmares.

When Dean wakes up, grown Sam is cuddled in his arms, sleeping, just as he had been in the dream. Dean’s heart surges with love for the boy Sam once was, as well as for the man he’s become. Sam used magic to keep the fire going while they slept, and it’s warm and snug here under the blanket with the love of his life. 

His soulmate.

Dean wonders idly why his mother would bind them that way. Could she see this happening? Did she ensure that the boys would love each other like this when she did her binding magic? Why would she do that? What kind of mother does that to her children?

Dean shakes his head. He can’t imagine she intended for this to happen. It just doesn’t make sense.

Sam stirs in his arms, shifts onto his back. Dean follows, gazing down into his face as the first rays of the rising sun touch Sam’s skin, making it glow.

“What?” Sam blinks up at him, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Your mother wasn’t a demon,” Dean says firmly. “I don’t know much, but I know that.”

At least he can tell Sam that. He can’t tell him the truth, at least not now, but he can tell him that. He can assure Sam of that one thing.

Sam stares up at him blankly for a moment as Dean’s words sink in, then he lowers his eyes and huffs out an embarrassed laugh, dimples creasing his cheeks.

“I guess I knew just what to say to get you to fuck me,” he teases.

Dean frowns. “You didn’t just say that stuff to get me to go to bed with you.” He’s momentarily shocked by the idea that Sam could be so manipulative, then tosses that thought aside. It just doesn’t matter. “I can tell there’s not an evil bone in your body. I _know_.”

Sam’s gaze turns soft, fond. “When you tell me that, I feel like I believe it. I believe you.”

“Good.” Dean pats Sam’s chest, lets his thumb rub over his nipple. “Now, let’s get moving, huh? You said we had another day’s walk ahead of us.”

They stumble around each other as they clean up the camp, giddy with emotion and lack of sleep. Dean can’t stop touching Sam, and Sam can’t stop grinning and blushing when he does, which makes Dean touch him more. They eat and wash up as best they can, given their limited supplies, and start out toward the trees on the other side of the meadow as the sun rises warm on their backs.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.

**//**//**

Although there’s still no visible trail, Sam seems to know exactly where to go. Dean’s learned to trust him in the three days since their reunion. Although Sam swears he’s never been this way before, he has an innate sense of direction, and he never hesitates as they make their way up steep inclines and across heavily-forested plateaus.

When they stop to eat at midday they’re deep in the woods. The earth smells clean and rich, bird song echoes in the cool air, and Sam tastes like mint and rosemary when Dean kisses him.

“Herbs,” Sam explains as he opens a pouch to reveal a small stash of dried leaves. “They keep meat fresh and tasting good.”

“I know what herbs are,” Dean huffs. “I didn’t grow up on a farm for nothing. Ellen kept an herb garden outside the kitchen door.”

“I remember that,” Sam says softly.

“You remember those zucchini loaves she used to bake?”

Sam nods. “She used honey to sweeten them.”

“And wild onion for spice.” Dean’s mouth waters. “Man, it’s been years since I’ve tasted Ellen’s baking.”

“Maybe we can drop by her roadhouse one of these days.”

Dean thinks about that for a minute. It’s been three years since he’s been in Lawrence, almost six months since he last talked to a hunter who’d been through there. He assumes Ellen’s roadhouse has survived the raids that have been happening at greater rates over the past few years, but he can’t be sure. Since the U.S. government decided to withdraw its cavalry and close it’s forts West of the Mississippi, conditions have rapidly deteriorated. News is sporadic at best.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean shrugs.

**//**//**

The sun is sinking low by the time Sam and Dean cross the final ridge into the meadow below Long Mountain. The log cabin that sits in the center of the meadow beside an icy stream isn’t what they expected, but until that moment Dean’s not sure what he thought they’d find. A cave, maybe. Or a little hut, like something a hermit would live in. Smoke rises from the stone chimney, and a warm light shines from one of the open front windows. A rocking chair sits on the ample front porch, facing the best view from the house.

“Downright homey,” Dean comments as they pause to take in the scene. Dean leans on his walking stick, acquired this morning as soon as he could see that they would spend the day climbing again. He tries not to pant, but the air is thin up here. He’s heard that the mountain peaks in this part of the Rockies are tall enough to reach the sky, and he believes it.

“Huh,” Sam answers, agreeing with Dean’s assessment. The place is definitely not what he expected, either.

“So, do we knock?” Dean asks. “Or call out so he knows we’re friendly?”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t get many visitors,” Sam answers, not really answering at all.

“You think the werewolves leave him alone?” Dean asks. “I mean, this place looks like a big ol’ welcome mat to non-humankind, don’t you think?”

They draw their weapons on instinct as they move cautiously closer, aware that they’re sitting ducks if the occupants of the cabin decide to start firing at them. They’re about to split up, to circle the cabin in order to cover it better when the door opens and a man steps out onto the porch.

The man wears a long tan duster, a string tie and shiny black boots with steel toes, but no hat. His hair is cut short and he’s clean-shaven, a luxury in these parts so far from civilization. His hands hang loose at his sides, no weapon present that Dean can see. He squints into the sun, tilts his head quizzically, and waits for them to approach.

“Castiel?” Dean calls out, keeping his gun raised and aimed. “Are you Castiel?”

“I am,” the man answers. “And you are Sam and Dean Winchester.”

“Campbell,” Sam corrects automatically. “I’m Sam Campbell.”

Castiel tilts his head and squints.

“So you’re a psychic,” Dean accuses.

Castiel fixes his inscrutable gaze on Dean and Dean tries not to shiver. There’s something alien about the man, something not human.

“I am an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel says. “The Prophecy says that an Angel of the Lord will be visited by Sam and Dean Winchester in the year 1901. I have been waiting for you.”

“Well, that’s not creepy,” Dean mutters, and Sam nods grimly.

Castiel steps sideways, sweeping an arm toward the open door of the cabin in a gesture of welcome. “Come. You are safe here.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances, and Dean keeps his gun raised.

“How do we know this isn’t some kind of trap?” he accuses.

“I can assure you, this is not a trap,” Castiel says.

“You alone here?”

“I am alone,” Castiel confirms. “The humans who lived here left long ago.”

“Left?” Dean glares. “You mean you killed them?”

Castiel lowers his eyes for a moment, and Dean gets the impression he’s trying to contain his irritation.

“I did not kill them,” Castiel assures him. “They left shortly after I took this vessel.” He gestures down at himself.

Dean gapes. “You’re possessing some poor bastard?” Castiel’s alienness makes more sense suddenly.

“He gave up this vessel willingly,” Castiel says. “Jimmy Novak was a devout man. He prayed for this.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he did,” Dean growls. “He still in there?”

“He is,” Castiel nods. “I have him locked inside a simulacrum of the frontier life he lived with his family before I arrived. He is happy.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Dean huffs. “Now, release him!”

Castiel frowns. “If I release him, you will not receive the answers you seek.”

“I don’t care,” Dean insists. “We’ll find another way.”

“Mary Winchester is alive,” Castiel says. “I can tell you where to find her.”

Dean hesitates. He glances at Sam, who gives him the okay to make the decision for both of them on this. He follows Dean’s lead just as easily as he did when they were kids. Besides, Mary’s Dean’s mother. Dean’s the one who needs to find her, needs her to release him from his promise to keep Sam’s true identity from him.

Of course, now Dean’s not so sure he wants Sam to know. He’s pretty sure if Sam finds out Dean’s been holding out on him and keeping such a big secret from him, Sam won’t want him anymore. Sam will leave, run away from Dean as fast and as far as he can, and Dean wouldn’t blame him if he did.

“No,” Dean says firmly. “We’ll find her ourselves, you bastard. Now, release the man you’re possessing. Do it!”

He cocks his gun and aims at Castiel’s head, but of course Dean won’t shoot now that he knows this is a real human being, and Castiel knows it. The angel narrows his eyes again, glancing from Sam to Dean.

“Aren’t you curious about your destiny?” Castiel says. “Don’t you want to know why I was sent here to wait for you?”

“I don’t care!” Dean insists. The truth is, he’s terrified of the notion that this creature knows anything about him, but he’s not going to let Castiel see that.

“You and Sam are very special, Dean,” Castiel goes on. “Your parents have raised you well. Between your father’s training as a warrior and farmer, and your mother’s schooling in the psychic and magic arts, you are both well prepared for the coming battle.”

“Shut up!” Dean shouts. He feels Sam’s worried glance but ignores it. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything you have to say to us. All I see is a lying, manipulative monster that calls itself an angel to justify destroying some poor guy’s life. You’re no better than the evil things we kill every goddamn day.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Dean.” For a moment, the angel seems genuinely contrite. “I wish you luck finding your mother.” He hesitates, then adds, “And if you change your mind, pray to me. I will hear you.”

The angel’s eyes flash with a bright, white light, and for a moment Dean assumes the worst. He tightens his finger on the trigger, but in the next moment the angel’s gone. Sam and Dean are left alone with the echo of flapping wings and the impression of a huge wing-like shadow extending behind the angel before he disappeared, taking his human vessel with him.

They search the grounds and the cabin, finding only the remnants of a human family but no sign of the angel.

“I guess that’s it, then,” Dean comments as he tucks his gun away. “He’s gone.”

Sam nods. “Think he’ll be back?”

Dean frowns. “What do you think? We threatened to end him.”

Sam picks up a photograph from a side table. “I guess the family’s long gone.”

Dean glances at the photograph, which shows a beautiful blonde woman and a pretty blonde child with the man who used to be Jimmy Novak. The trio stare into the camera, unsmiling, but there’s a warmth in Novak’s eyes that hadn’t been there when Sam and Dean spoke to the angel Castiel.

“How long has it been, do you think?”

“Well, the story about Castiel is at least five years old,” Sam says. “I first heard about him a little after Mary brought me to her training camp. A couple of hunters had been attacked by werewolves near here, and Castiel healed them.”

“Nobody bothered to mention that he’d possessed a human.”

Sam shakes his head. “Apparently, he told the hunters that he was very old. They got the impression that he wasn’t human, but that’s all.”

“So he didn’t tell them what he told us,” Dean says. “All that Angel of the Lord crap. Nothing about prophecies and destinies and waiting for them.”

“I get the feeling that was just about us, Dean,” Sam says softly.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean growls. It makes his skin crawl, the thought of Castiel having intel on him and Sam specifically. It makes him wish he’d killed the angel while he had the chance.

Sam shakes his head. “I’ve never even seen a demon,” he says. “And now, angels?”

“Just another monster, Sam,” Dean reminds him. “Just another thing that takes human beings and uses or kills them.”

“Yeah, but an Angel of the Lord?” Sam whistles. “You think God’s real, too?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything. We still keep doing what we do, fighting the things that try to kill us.”

“Yeah, but if there’s some grand plan behind all of this, don’t you want to know what it is? Aren’t you curious?”

“Doesn’t change a thing, Sam,” Dean repeats. “We still gotta do our jobs. We’re in the middle of a war, and those things are winning. We can’t spend time and energy worrying about some mythical grand scheme. That’s got nothing to do with us.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cuz from what Castiel said...”

“Doesn’t matter! Sam, the guy probably lied. He was manipulating us.”

“He knew our names... Well, _your_ name, anyway.”

“He reads minds. He’s a psychic. We’ve come across monsters that can do that. The Djinn, for example. It’s just a thing some monsters can do. Come on, Sam. You’re reading too much into this. Castiel is just another monster, just another thing we can’t trust because he’s one of _them._ ”

“I guess.” Sam seems reluctant, so Dean grabs him, plants one on him, anything to shut him up. Sam won’t let this go, Dean knows. It’s the way he is.

They decide to spend the night before heading East the next morning. The cupboards are full of food and the fire makes the house warm and snug. The angel has left a heated bath for them, so they take turns bathing, shaving, and warding the house before curling up together in the large feather bed nestled in the loft under the eaves of the little house. It’s the first real bed Dean’s slept in for over a year, and he falls into a deep sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He dreams of a prison camp where humans are guarded by men and women whose eyes glow white like Castiel’s eyes. The humans are herded like cattle, lined up for feeding in a long, low building that looks like a stable. They go in on one end of the building but they don’t come out. A bright light flashes between the slats of the walls at regular intervals, and Dean gets the impression the humans are being killed, one by one. He imagines the scene on the inside of the slaughterhouse as each human enters, gets his soul ripped out of him in a blast of white light while his body collapses into a big hole in the ground, empty and dead.

Dean wakes up gasping, eyes blinking open in the semi-darkness, Sam stirring in the bed next to him.

“Hey,” Sam breathes. His big hand brushes against Dean’s cheek, and Dean realizes he’s been crying in his sleep. “Bad dream?”

“They’re harvesting human souls,” Dean whispers, still half-asleep.

Sam’s thumb soothes over Dean’s cheekbone, just under his eye.

“The angels,” Dean whispers, fearful of being overheard, although he knows there’s no one here but them. “It’s like Mom’s vision, the one you told me about. The people with white eyes. They’re angels, Sam. Like Castiel.”

Sam props himself up on one elbow and gazes down into Dean’s face. The only light comes from the dying embers of the fire, but Dean catches a flash of Sam’s eyes. He leans into the warmth of Sam’s hand on his cheek.

“Was it a vision?” Sam asks softly. “Or just a dream?”

“I don’t know!” Dean whines. “Visions come with headaches, don’t they? They’re painful. This just felt like a dream. A really vivid one. And fucking sad, man. Super sad. Like end-of-the-world sad.”

Sam nods. His long hair swings around his face, shadowing his eyes.

“I think it’s the future,” Sam says. “I don’t think it’s happening yet. Castiel’s like an emissary, or a herald. He’s been sent ahead to warn us about what’s coming.”

Sam’s words sound true and terrifying at the same time, and Dean starts shivering uncontrollably.

“Just a dream, Sammy, I swear,” he says, teeth chattering.

“Did it feel like just a dream?”

Damn Sam for pushing it.

Dean says nothing. He can’t stop shaking. He’s never had a vision before, and he doesn’t like the idea of having one now. He wonders if it was triggered by the angel.

He really hates that notion.

Sam wraps his arms and legs around Dean and pulls him close, holding him almost too tight until his shivering subsides, until Sam’s body heat replaces the cold in Dean’s bones.

“Need you,” Sam whispers, pressing his lips to Dean’s temple. “Need your goodness inside me, chasing away the dark.”

Dean pushes back till he can look Sam in the eye. “There’s nothing dark inside you,” he says firmly. “You hear me, Sam?”

“Fuck me,” Sam pleads.

For a moment, Dean hesitates. They haven’t done that yet. It’s not because Dean hasn’t wanted to, or because he’s slightly panicked that Sam’s a virgin. Both of those things are true, of course, but the bigger reason is because Dean’s a coward and a liar and Sam deserves better. And somehow, in Dean’s sick, twisted mind, if they don’t consummate this thing between them with actual penetrative intercourse, maybe it’s not really as bad as all that.

But Dean can’t refuse Sam anything. They both know that. Sam’s naked and begging, his beautiful body stretched out on a soft bed, smooth skin bathed in shadows and firelight, and it’s more than Dean can withstand. He’s not capable of resisting that kind of temptation.

They take it slow, use plenty of oil for lube, and Dean stops to let Sam adjust more than Sam would like, but eventually Dean’s fully sheathed inside Sam’s body. He rubs and soothes the small of Sam’s back until Sam starts bucking back, demanding more, and Dean gives it to him, sliding in and out with care at first, then with greater force as Sam writhes and grunts beneath him. He reaches around to work Sam’s dick with one hand, holds onto Sam’s hip with the other, and they come more or less together. 

They lie tangled together afterwards, too sated and tired to move. Just before Dean slips into unconsciousness it occurs to him that Sam had taken Dean’s mind off the disturbing dream-vision deliberately. Sam’s empathy and understanding would strike Dean as uncanny if he didn’t know him as well as he does.


	4. Chapter 4

**//**//**

In the morning, they leave the little house just as they found it. They put the fire out before they go, and Sam can’t help bespelling and warding it against supernatural intruders as he has with the camps they’ve visited. As they make their way down the hill in front of the cabin, Dean looks back over his shoulder. The house is already slipping into the morning mist, disappearing along with its former occupants.

He wonders about the woman and the little girl who once lived here, and he’s glad Sam wove the time spell that should keep the house and its contents untouched for at least another five years. Maybe the family will return. Dean doubts it, but he can’t help respecting Sam’s hope. It’s something he’s beginning to depend on.

Sam leads them down the mountain on a more direct path than the one they came up, and by mid-afternoon they reach the edge of a cliff which gives them a stunning view of the plains below.

“It’s still another three day’s walk down from here, but I needed you to see this,” Sam explains. The wind blows his hair back from his face and once again Dean can’t decide which is more beautiful, the stunning natural vista or Sam’s profile.

They bed down that night in the open, without the protection of a mage camp. It’s more dangerous than other places they’ve camped so far, so they take turns keeping watch and don’t build a fire. As they eat the dried meat and fruit they took from the Novak homestead, they watch the stars and consider their next move. It makes sense to continue East, to find other hunters and get news of the situation on the ground.

The next day passes in much the same way. Dean’s just grateful they’re headed downhill and that Sam knows the way. By mid-afternoon of their second day, the landscape becomes familiar, and Dean realizes he’s passed this way before.

“There was a town about a day’s walk from here, on a plateau over the river,” Dean says. “I think they named it after the Governor of Kansas.”

“Denver City.” Sam nods. “I’ve been there. First settled by gold-rushers in the ‘50s.”

“That’s right. They were having a helluva problem with daevas, last time I passed through there.”

“Shadow demons?” Sam frowns. “I thought those were mythical.”

“Maybe, but they’re real, too,” Dean says. “They were tearing people apart right and left. Bobby and I figured out they were being controlled by a gang of corrupt politicians and bankers. Bobby seemed to think they were possessed by demons, but they seemed like ordinary humans to me. Greedy, power-hungry humans.”

“Humans who can control daevas,” Sam says, clearly skeptical.

“Yeah. I don’t know, maybe they made deals with demons.” Dean feels like an idiot in the face of Sam’s obviously superior knowledge and understanding of all things supernatural, and it makes him grumpy. “All I know is, this is a human thing. It’s human bad guys doing bad things.”

“So you took them down?”

Dean’s appalled. “What? What part of ‘this is a human thing’ do you not understand?”

“The part where the humans are controlling the things and making them kill other humans,” Sam says. “That’s evil. Those kind of humans have to be stopped.”

“Right. Bobby and me against hundreds of these things. Maybe more.”

“So you call for back up,” Sam says. “You get other hunters. You call in the cavalry.”

“Sam, you have to understand something,” Dean says. He’s trying to be patient. “The U.S. government doesn’t care about us. They cut us off five years ago. They called it quits on the whole Western Expansion project. They pulled back their troops, deserted their forts and garrisons West of the Mississippi, left a half-finished railroad and three westward wagon routes unprotected. They abandoned us. We’re a lost cause.” Dean shakes his head. “We’re on our own out here, Sam. Whatever way of life we can scrounge out of these monster-infested lands, it’s up to us to protect that. Nobody’s coming to rescue us. And we just don’t have the manpower to save every failing town and settlement. We don’t.”

Sam sucks in a breath. “So you’re just giving up?”

“Not giving up,” Dean says firmly. “I was born and raised out here. So was Bobby, so were Ellen and Jo and most of the folks living in Lawrence. And that’s the operative word, Sammy. We’re _living_. We protect what we have. We’re not letting the bastards take it away from us.”

“But you’re not out looking for a fight,” Sam says.

Dean recalls the way he threw himself into hunting after Sam disappeared. He was reckless, probably a little suicidal, although he’d never admit that to himself, nor to Sam.

“Let’s just say the overall dynamic has changed since dad became a hunter,” Dean says. “Back then, we hunted to make the West livable for all people, incoming Settlers and Natives alike. Now, we operate on a more defensive mode, to hold on to the lives we’ve already built.”

“But you still go out on hunts,” Sam clarifies. “You leave your homes to get out there to do the work.”

“Of course we do,” Dean huffs. “We’re hunters, aren’t we? We got local law enforcement for basic protection. We’re the guys who get called on to take out a pack of werewolves or a nest of vampires who’ve moved into the area. We’ve got specialized skills and knowledge. The local sheriffs and chiefs are always gonna need us.”

Sam shakes his head. “Things sure have changed in six years,” he notes. “They’ll be making you sheriff before you know it.”

“No, they won’t!” Dean scoffs. “I’ve been on the road for the past six years, in case you didn’t know. I’m a wanderer at heart.”

“No, you’re not.” Sam shakes his head. “You’re a homebody if I ever met one. The way you protected the ranch all those years... That’s real love and dedication. I’ll bet you can’t wait to have a home again.”

Dean’s stunned. He’s learned to see himself as a rambler, a traveler who never settles down or puts down roots.

“Nah. You’re wrong about that,” he says. “I’ve spent the past six years wandering, and it’s changed me. I’m a nomad now.”

Sam smiles softly. “You were searching for me,” Sam reminds him. “Now you’re looking for your mom. Pulling your family together. I know you. You’re a homesteader at heart, not a cowboy.”

Dean bristles. “You don’t know me,” he huffs, but he can’t deny that what Sam says is partly true. He’s a wanderer by necessity, a hired gun by circumstance. The fact that he’s learned to accept the life doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss having a home.

That night, Dean takes the first watch because he’s older and those are the rules. Sam rolls his eyes but accepts Dean’s order to bed down for four hours, gets up without question when it’s Dean’s turn to sleep. The night passes without incident, and Dean’s grateful for that, if a little wary. They’ve gone several days without encountering anything supernatural, except the angel, of course. It feels wrong.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asks as they head out on the trail a couple of hours after dawn. They’re both a little groggy.

“Just wondering what made those werewolves take off like that,” Dean says.

Sam understands. “I was wondering the same thing,” he admits. “It’s like they got called off.”

Dean nods. “Never saw werewolves behave that way before.”

“You think something’s controlling them?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Humans? Like those dickbags in Denver?”

“I don’t know, man.” Dean shakes his head. “Dad always said monsters were stupid. They’re basically blood-thirsty animals that can’t think for themselves for shit. But after that dream I had, I can’t help thinking there’s other things out there that are calling the shots, you know?”

“Angels,” Sam suggests.

“Or demons,” Dean says. “Bobby says demons have intelligence. They can organize themselves, work in groups. I’ve never seen one, but Bobby says they look human. Act human, too, like shapeshifters. They could’ve been living among us all this time and we’d never know it.”

Sam nods. “Native lore is full of stories of demonic possession,” he says. “I’ve never heard of demons controlling other creatures, though.”

“Hellhounds,” Dean corrects. “Demons control hellhounds. And daevas.”

“Right.” Sam frowns. “Not the average demon, though. Only the more powerful ones can do that.”

“Like I said before, I’ve never seen one, so I can’t say. Bobby’s got experience with demons. Ran into one when he was young, apparently. That’s the the only one I’ve ever heard tell of, outside of books and rumors.”

Talking about angels and demons puts Dean’s teeth on edge. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much to imagine some higher order of intelligence controlling the supernatural creatures he’s used to killing, but it does. It suggests there’s some kind of plan, some kind of order to the way the monsters are behaving.

He can’t shake the dream. It suggested that there was a systematic extermination going on, or a plan to put one in place. That idea makes Dean profoundly uncomfortable. Random monster attacks he can handle. Organized genocide he can’t. It’s too much to get his mind around.

“What I don’t get is, what’s the point?” Sam says, as if he’s reading Dean’s mind, which Dean’s starting to get used to. “I mean, if the monsters kill all the humans, how will they survive? If they destroy their food source, they’ll die, too, won’t they?”

Dean shakes his head, just as stumped. They walk for the next couple of hours in silence, both lost in thought.

As soon as they step out of the trees onto the gentle slopes of the foothills, they hear hoofbeats. Sam puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles, getting an answering whinny that makes him smile.

Two horses crest the hill to the northeast, making their way at a full gallop. When they reach Sam and Dean they circle them, still at a full gallop, tossing their heads, snorting and whinnying until Dean throws back his head and laughs. Sam catches his eye and laughs with him, waits for Dean to put his pack down and pull out a halter and the carrot he’d been saving for just this occasion.

Remus tosses her head and snorts as Dean puts his hands up, letting her see what he’s holding. She stops circling, stamping back and forth in front of Dean in a perfect figure eight before she steps up to him, tossing her head once more before she pushes her muzzle into his hand and takes the carrot between her teeth. Dean slips the halter over the mare’s head as she nuzzles his shoulder, looking for more treats.

“Ha. Such a flirt,” Dean teases, petting her neck affectionately as he slides around to her left side and jumps up onto her back. She circles as he gets his leg over her, pulling the halter’s rope around so he can use it as a makeshift reign, barely hinting at the bridle he didn’t need to bring with him. When he’s fully seated he looks over at Sam, who managed to catch and mount Romulus in half the time without either a carrot or a halter. Sam grins at him, and Dean shakes his head.

“Show off,” he mutters.

Sam laughs. “Romy is the show-off,” he insists. “She just wanted to show Remus how much better her rider is.”

“Ha! Better than you were when you were twelve, maybe,” Dean chuckles. “Not better than me, though.”

Sam grins, but doesn’t answer.

Within a couple of hours, they find themselves in a deserted settlement. It’s a small town, nestled against the foothills of the rockies, and not far from it they find a Native village, also deserted. There’s no sign of struggle in either place, but Dean gets the distinct impression the occupants left in a hurry. There’s a half-eaten bison in the smokehouse in the Native village, an open bottle of whiskey on the table in the town saloon. The horses toss their heads nervously as they make their way through the town to the blacksmith shop, where Dean decides to borrow a saddle and bridle.

“Something tells me nobody’s coming back to claim these,” he comments as Sam watches with a frown. He doesn’t bother to saddle his horse, although he borrows a blanket and bridle. Dean checks out the weapons stash in the sheriff’s office and decides to borrow an extra Colt revolver and silver bullets. “Just in case,” he tells Sam.

“Where do you think they went in such a hurry?” Sam asks.

“My guess? Someplace safer,” Dean says. “Maybe a fort?”

“Not around here,” Sam says.

They exchange glances as they have the same thought. Denver City is less than a four hours ride.

Dean doesn’t tell Sam that he’s seen this before. People have been abandoning villages and towns all over the West, now that the word is out about the troop withdrawal. There aren’t enough hunters and Native warriors to protect the entire population, so a large number of Settlers have given up and gone back East, while the Native population has dwindled. There are ghost towns and villages everywhere, some populated by actual ghosts, which is a good reason in Dean’s mind not to try to stay the night in one, however tempting it might be to lie down in a real bed again.

They leave the town in low spirits, neither feeling much like talking about what they just saw.

About a mile outside of Denver City, things go from bad to worse. They see the smoke first, then they find the first bodies, human corpses with their hearts torn out, lying by the side of the road out of town.

“Looks like they made a run for it, back the way they came, then got caught by werewolves,” Sam notes, nose wrinkling delicately. The closer Sam and Dean get to Denver City, the worse it smells. The stench of death mixes with the acrid smell of smoke until it becomes clear that the whole town is burning.

The horses snort and paw nervously as Sam and Dean urge them along the road that skirts the city, eyes peeled for the first sign of danger. It goes unspoken between them that they can’t stop here. Even as the sun sinks to the horizon and the air becomes so thick with smoke that it seems like night has already fallen, Sam and Dean keep going, urging the horses forward along the river until they can cross safely and head out onto the plateau beyond.

Only when they’ve put the city semi-comfortably behind them does Dean breathe a sigh of relief. Over the next couple of hours they keep an eye out for any sign of life, either friend of foe, but finally the burning smell fades behind them.

“I know a place we can bed down,” Sam says, making Dean jump, and it occurs to him that neither of them has said a word in several hours. “It’s well-warded. Invisible.”

“Great,” Dean mutters. _As if the magic that makes Sam’s camps invisible doesn’t somehow trigger every werewolf in the neighborhood._

It isn’t the first time that thought has crossed Dean’s mind.

He doesn’t share it with Sam, though. Sam seems so sure of the magic he learned from Dean’s mom. _Sam’s_ mom. And mostly, Sam’s been right since that first night. It’s possible that the energy created when Sam and Dean reunited was what had attracted the werewolves, not the weird invisible camp.

That thought makes Dean jumpy. The whole notion that there’s something special about Sam and Dean together makes Dean’s skin crawl, to be honest. He _knows_ there’s something special about them. He’s known it since the first moment four-year-old Sam arrived on his doorstep. But finding out that the world knows it, that the world finds anything unique or noteworthy about _them_ is...disturbing. Dean’s now had confirmation of that not just from his mother, which is scary enough, not to mention her apparent need to soul-bond them. But Castiel also made reference to Sam and Dean as if they were a single entity, as if their union was common knowledge on the Supernatural Telegraph Lines.

Fuck Castiel.

The camp isn’t as primitive as their former digs. Now that they’re out of the mountains, accommodations are a little less rustic, apparently. There’s a well with running water, a sod house built into the side of the hill that’s mostly dry inside, and plenty of supplies.

They eat, wash up, make sure the horses are fed and watered after the long day’s ride, then they tumble into bed with their clothes on. They’re too tired to do much more than kiss and rut and cling to each other, but Dean can’t help wishing he could crawl inside Sam’s body and hide from what they’ve seen today.

“We should go back and burn or bury all those corpses,” Dean mutters after they’ve lain quietly together for the better part of an hour. “There’ll be a helluva restless spirit situation there if we don’t.”

Sam nods, but says nothing. He holds Dean tighter, breathes deep into the side of his head.

“Maybe later, though, huh?” Dean goes on. “We should probably check on things in Lawrence first.”

Sam sighs, nods again, and presses his lips to Dean’s temple.

“It’s a two-week ride if we start in the morning,” Dean says. “If we push it, we could make it in ten days.” He’s not sure Sam will agree, but he hopes he will. He needs Sam by his side, now more than ever.

“Okay,” Sam says. It’s almost a whisper, he says it so quietly. “Not sure how welcome I’ll be, but I’ll come with you.”

Dean’s so grateful he chokes up and can’t speak. Sam presses his lips against Dean’s temple again and leaves them there.

They fall asleep like that, holding each other as tight as they can, feeling each other’s hearts beating, their breaths warm and damp in the space between them.

Dean’s sleep is deep and dreamless.

**//**//**

They head out early the next morning on the road to Lawrence, almost due East. By noon they encounter another ghost town, this one just as empty as the first, although it seems to have been abandoned longer. There’s dust on the tables in the saloon and on the porch railings. The houses have been stripped of their belongings, not much left behind for scavengers or hungry wanderers.

“I’m guessing these folks took their time packing up, getting gone,” Dean says as they go through the empty cupboards and drawers in the General Store. “This place has been empty for a while.”

“Maybe they left when the cavalry pulled out,” Sam suggests, and Dean nods. Makes sense to him.

At least there aren’t any bodies.

They stop for the night in a deserted farmhouse and help themselves to the potatoes and carrots in the root cellar. They bed the horses down in the stable, where they find a bale of hay and some grain. It rains during the night, becomes a raging thunderstorm by morning, and they decide to wait till the rain stops before starting out again. They play cards while they wait, and Sam shows Dean how to light a fire without matches or flint. They undress, wash, cook the rabbit Sam caught the day before, and have sex on the floor in front of the fire. The house reminds Dean of the one he grew up in. It’s harder than he expected to leave the next morning, but they do it, heading out under a clear blue sky dotted with the puffy white remains of the thunderclouds from the day before.

The weather holds out for the next few days and they make good progress. Every town they pass is deserted. Except for the birds, rabbits, and occasional herd of buffalo, the world feels completely empty of life, though Dean knows that’s not possible.

On the sixth day out of Denver, they run into a band of hunters heading north.

“We’re going home to Sioux Falls,” Victor Henriksen, the group’s leader, tells Sam and Dean. “Last I heard, they need help holding the settlement against human raiders and werewolves. We could sure use a couple of strong young hunters, if you’re looking for work.”

“We’re on our way home, too,” Dean says. “You heard anything about Lawrence?”

Henriksen shakes his head. “Nothing since last fall. They were holding their own then. You boys know Bobby Singer?”

“We do,” Dean nods. “He’s been a family friend since before I was born.”

“What’s your name, boy?” One of the hunters, an older man with a grizzled beard, peers at Dean curiously.

“Winchester,” Dean answers. “My father was John Winchester.”

The old hunter sticks his hand out. “Martin Creaser,” he introduces himself. “Your dad and I served together in the War. Good man.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nods, shakes the man’s hand. “He was.”

Creaser gets Dean’s meaning and tips his hat. “I’m sorry for your loss, son,” he says softly. “I take it he went down fighting?”

“He did,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “So what’s this about Bobby?”

“Just that I know they’re dying for him to come home,” Henriksen says. “They’re looking for a good sheriff, so if you see him, let him know, will you? They could really use his help up there.”

“We’ll do that.” Dean nods.

Dean asks about his mother, but none of the hunters has heard tell of Mary Winchester in years.

“There were rumors about a Mary Campbell who ran a training camp for young hunters,” Henriksen says. “That was four, five years ago now, around the time of the Withdrawal. Haven’t heard anything about her since, and I never met her. She was a bit of a legend even then.”

They share stories and news over a stew of potatoes, carrots, onions and buffalo the group had killed a couple of days ago. The hunters are impressed by Sam’s warding talent, taking lessons as he shows them how to hide a cooking fire in plain sight. They seem surprised when the Winchesters tell them they hadn’t encountered a single monster since May 3 at a camp in the Rockies.

“Oklahoma and Texas are crawling with chupacabra,” Creaser tells them. “They travel in packs, like werewolves, and they’re just as bloodthirsty.”

Sam and Dean relay what they saw in Denver City, and Henriksen nods.

“Saw that in Kansas City about a year ago,” he says. “Daevas infiltrated the general population, then werewolves moved in to finish the job. Messiest thing I ever saw.”

“Why didn’t you tell them about Castiel?” Sam whispers later, when they’re bedded down in one of the tents the hunters loaned them.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He doesn’t admit his fear and shame when he thinks about Castiel. The hunters are already suspicious of them, can’t quite believe they’ve been so lucky as to travel without hindrance for almost two weeks. Dean knows they’ve been luckier than they should have been. The countryside east of the Rockies should be crawling with monsters, but Sam and Dean haven’t seen a single one since that first day, unless they count Castiel. 

Dean can’t help worrying that Castiel might have something to do with that. He’s an angel, after all. If he feels it’s his job to guard them somehow, then that might be the reason they haven’t run up against anything evil since that first day.

No way will he mention the angel to these hunters. Doing so would only complicate things. He can’t tell them about his dream, or his mother’s vision, or Castiel telling Sam and Dean that they’re special. It all sounds too creepy, and it makes Dean’s skin crawl.

Let these hunters think the boys have been unnaturally lucky. It’s easier that way.

They ride together the next day until Henriksen’s group veers off on the road north to Sioux Falls. Sam gives them charms made from herbs wrapped in leather and spelled for protection, and they all wish each other good luck on their separate journeys. They keep the tent the hunters gave them the previous night, since Creaser insists it’s not needed.

“The thing belonged to a couple who got killed down in Amarillo,” he says. “It’s been weighing me down ever since. Good hunters. They’d be glad to know it’s going to a good cause.”

Sam and Dean are grateful to have the tent that night, when another thunderstorm rolls in. They lie in the tent, listening to the rain and thunder and worrying about the horses, until the storm passes just before dawn. When they emerge from the tent into the cool, clear morning, the landscape has shifted. There are temporary ponds and lakes everywhere, and the horses are nowhere to be found.

It takes them the better part of the morning to find the horses. Sam’s whistle doesn’t work this time, so he finally resorts to magic. Dean watches uneasily as Sam closes his eyes and goes so still he doesn’t seem to be breathing. Birds circle overhead and a breeze lifts Sam’s hair around his shoulders. He left his shirt off this morning, so he looks like a beautiful brown statue against the blue of the sky, and Dean can’t take his eyes off him.

Time passes slowly as the birds circle again and again, almost directly over Sam’s head, then take off in a north-easterly direction, as if something suddenly called them. Dean watches them until they become specks on the horizon. When he turns to look at Sam, his eyes are open and a smile turns up the corners of his mouth.

“Found them,” he says. “They’re coming.”

Dean frowns in confusion as he follows Sam’s gaze in the direction the birds flew. Then he hears them, hoofbeats thudding rhythmically across the rapidly hardening packed dirt floor of the prairie. They gallop up and stop a few feet away, heads tossing and hooves stomping. They seem spooked, so Dean approaches slowly, hand out.

“Hey, buddy,” he soothes to his mare. “Hey there, girl. You mad at me for leaving you outside in the storm last night? Huh?”

Remus tosses her head, side-eying him so that he gets the full effect of her fear and recrimination. She isn’t happy, he can see that.

“It’s not just the storm,” Sam says as he puts a hand out to his horse. “There was something out there. In the storm. Something not natural. I could — I could feel it.”

“Maybe they’re just spooked at _you_ using your psychic summoning spell,” Dean says, huffing out a laugh to lighten the mood. He hates Sam’s suggestion, hates it even more because he knows Sam’s probably right. Dean could feel it, too, which makes him grumpy. He doesn’t like his psychic ability, not even a little. It scares him.

“Dean, there’s something keeping an eye on us,” Sam says.

“You think?” Dean rolls his eyes.

“It knows where we’re going.”

Dean grits his teeth, trying not to let that bother him. They need to get to Lawrence, to deliver their message to Bobby, to make sure everybody there is still alive. After Denver, after what they know about Kansas City and Amarillo and Sioux Falls, getting back to Lawrence seems more important than ever.

Their luck and the weather holds out, so that over the next four days the only things they encounter on their journey are two more deserted towns and some empty homesteads. The last ghost town is just over a day’s ride from Lawrence, and Dean’s heart sinks as they ride down the main street. There are signs of a recent retreat here, as there were in the little town outside Denver. Furniture and dishes are strewn about the street, as if they fell out of the backs of wagons going too fast. The saloon doors hang off their hinges crookedly and bottles lie half-empty on the wood floor, some smashed and broken. The remains of recently-slaughtered beef and bison fill food lockers, and root cellars are still well-stocked after a relatively mild winter.

Sam and Dean eat well that night. They bed down in the town’s only hotel, easily picking the lock on the door to find a fully furnished bedroom with an attached bath, a luxury they’ve only heard about. Indoor plumbing is almost unheard of in the West, but this particular hotel has it all. Dean can’t resist turning the tap in the huge clawfoot bathtub, and is shocked to find warm water running through the pipes. He spends so long in the bathroom, Sam finally comes to look for him.

“Oh my god,” Sam breathes from the doorway.

Dean opens one eye and grins at the look on Sam’s face. He’s been soaking so long in the now-tepid and definitely-gray water that his skin has started to wrinkle. But he’s cleaner and more relaxed than he’s been in a long time.

“This is amazing, Sam,” Dean breathes enthusiastically. “You should try it.”

The hotel has been outfitted with real electrical wiring, and the lighting and heated water are provided by generator, another mechanical convenience Dean’s only read about. Somebody was clearly hoping to make a lot of money by offering the most modern conveniences and comforts. Unfortunately for them, humans lost the war, at least in these parts.

“No, no, I’m good,” Sam protests, but Dean insists. He holds up the freshly sharpened razor he’s found in a drawer under the sink and raises an eyebrow.

“I feel like a new man,” Dean says as he combs his hair in the tall oval Cheval mirror in the corner of the room. “Besides. Tomorrow, we go into battle, maybe. Better to die clean, right?”

Sam relents because he can see how much it means to Dean. They don’t talk about the possible battle to come. They don’t think about Denver. When they crawl between the clean sheets a couple of hours later, washed and scrubbed clean, they don’t worry about what tomorrow may bring.

They take their comfort and pleasure in each other and feel grateful for the time they have.

**//**//**

The morning dawns gray and surprisingly cold for early June. A cold wind howls through the empty alleys and around the corners of the empty buildings. As the boys ride out of town, they keep their hats pulled low over their eyes, their kerchiefs pulled up over their mouths and noses to keep out the blowing dust.

 _So much for the bath,_ Dean thinks as he feels the dust blowing up the sleeves of his coat, creating fresh grime around his wrists where his shirt meets his gloves. The dust leaves a gritty crease in the wrinkle of his neck, just above his shirt.

They pass a couple of empty farmsteads, their windows cracked and broken, doors hanging open by the hinges. They try not to imagine the occupants fleeing at the last moment before meeting their doom in their own front yards. They’re grateful not to find any bodies, but of course that doesn’t mean nobody died. The farmsteads seem to have been abandoned with even greater haste and desperation than the town. When the wind shifts, Dean smells the sickly-sweat scent of death that he knows only too well.

The horses smell it, too. Their nostrils flare and they shy nervously as they pass each farmstead. Dean wonders where the animals went, if they followed their masters into the jaws of death or managed to break free to roam the prairie.

Shortly after noon, they crest the hill that looks down into Lawrence. They’re entering the town from the western end, which always feels strange to Dean, since the Winchester farmstead lay to the east of the town.

“Okay,” Sam says as they pull up side by side. “No bodies. No smoke. So that’s good, don’t you think?”

“Looks quiet, all right,” Dean says.

Which is when they see it. Moving across the plain from the South, a wave of dark, snarling creatures that from a distance look almost peaceful. They move steadily toward the town in a long line that’s twice as long as the southern perimeter, so that it’s clear they will engulf the town in a matter of minutes once they reach it.

It occurs to Dean that the town might be deserted. Nothing stirs. There don’t appear to be people in the main street. Windows and doors look closed.

Then Dean catches the glint of something metallic near the church. Pastor Jim’s church, the place he visited every Sunday as a child until the day he learned the truth about his mother from the man himself.

“They’re in the church,” he says.

“The whole town?” Sam squints, trying to see what Dean sees.

“Looks like.” Dean nods.

“What do we do?” Sam’s voice sounds young, hesitant, and Dean remembers all the times Sam looked up to him as a child, how many times Sam looked to Dean to tell him what to do.

It’s all up to Dean now. It always was, in so many ways.

“We get in there and help them,” Dean says with more bravado than he feels.

Sam nods, and Dean takes courage from Sam’s conviction, from his faith in Dean. He has a feeling it won’t be the last time.

They let the horses go on the plain and walk down the hill into the town, Dean leading the way. As soon as they hit the warding wall they draw the pistols they absconded from one of the deserted towns they passed through, letting their ammunition belts swing low over their hips. The wind whips their clothes and Sam’s hair around them as they walk down the deserted main street, and Dean’s flooded with memories of every storefront, every family trip to this place that meant civilization to him all the years of his youth. They pass the schoolhouse, then the library, both intended to be rebuilt as limestone structures once the funding for the new university could be obtained.

Of course, that was before the Withdrawal. All construction stopped at the point when the railroad stopped delivering materials, when East Coast investors stopped sending supplies.

“Dean?”

They’ve just rounded the corner when Dean hears his name called. Bobby Singer stands in the clearing in front of the church. Gathered around him are his deputies and a group of the town’s most able-bodied citizens, maybe a hundred men and women in all. They carry silver blades of all sizes and shapes, and Dean recalls that the town was founded by hunters, most of whom he knows.

“Hey, Bobby.” Dean tries to smile, but he knows it comes off as more of a grimace. “Ellen.” He doesn’t see Jo so he imagines she’s in the church with the civilians.

“Sam?” Bobby turns his gaze to Dean’s companion, standing so close behind Dean they’re practically touching. Dean feels Sam stiffen, feels his gaze flick over the gathered faces nervously.

“Hi, Bobby,” Sam says cautiously.

Ellen crowds forward, tears in her eyes.

“You got big,” she notes as she hugs Sam first, then Dean.

“Glad you’re here, boys,” Bobby says. “As you can probably tell, we’re in a bit of a pickle. We could sure use your help.”

“What’s the plan?” Dean asks.

“Well, as you’ve probably already guessed, we’re under attack,” Bobby says, blunt as ever. “We’re vastly outnumbered and our chances are slim, so all we can do is try to hold ‘em off until help arrives.”

“Help?”

Bobby nods. “Sent a rider to Kansas City yesterday, at the first sign o’ this coming.”

“Bobby, Kansas City’s toast,” Dean says, shaking his head. “It’s already fallen. Denver, too. We just came from there. Met some hunters headed to Sioux Falls, and they said Texas and Oklahoma are overrun, too. Most of the towns between here and Denver are deserted.”

“Yeah, we’ve taken in a few refugees over the past few months,” Ellen says. “Most of them went on to Kansas City, though.”

Bobby exchanges grim looks with his deputies.

“Things are moving in from the South,” Dean says. “You put in a warding wall on that side of town?”

Bobby nods. “All around the town, but extra protection spells on that side. Figured they’d be coming from that direction.”

“All right then. Let’s get to work.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen my mom,” Dean asks Bobby as they take positions along the southern edge of the town. The hunters spread out in groups of two or three, facing the horde steadily descending on them.

“Nope,” Bobby shakes his head. “But it’s good to see Sam. Guess that means she took care of him, all those years.”

“That’s what it means, all right,” Dean says. He wonders when he stopped worrying as much about finding Mary as saving this town. Probably sometime after Denver.

As the monsters draw closer, Dean can hear them snarling and growling, but he can’t make out much more about them. They’re mostly werewolves, with some chupacabras mixed in, he thinks. Vicious animals without much in the way of intelligence. He wonders what’s controlling them.

When the first wave of monsters hits the warding wall, the things bounce back, snarling angrily. The lines of monsters behind them keep coming, pushing the first line against the wall, crushing and stomping on them in a blind effort to keep moving forward. Dean tries not to think about the bodies strewn about the perimeter of Denver City, but it doesn’t help. He watches monsters tearing each other apart, slamming against the warding until it starts to give, and he can see it won’t be long now.

When the first couple of monsters make it through the wall, they’re cut down instantly. More pour in through the weakened spot until it becomes a hole wide enough for two monsters to push through at a time. The hunters take down each monster, leaving a pile of bodies on the inside of the wall, half-blocking the entrance. Then the creatures punch through the wall in another place, and another. Soon Dean’s hacking and firing and reloading so fast he doesn’t have time to consider whether they’re making a dent. He and Sam stand side by side at first, then back to back, as they did that first day after their reunion. When he hears Sam cry out in pain, Dean doubles his efforts, angrily hacking at anything in front of him, beside him, not daring to turn to check on Sam but determined to protect him at all costs. Something gets him in the shoulder but he doesn’t feel any pain until something else grabs his leg. He feels a burning pain sear down his thigh to his knee and his leg gives out beneath him.

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice, full of alarm, comes from somewhere above him but he can’t see. Something’s in front of his eyes. He hacks at it, but he can’t feel his arm. He has a moment to realize he’s down with bodies piling up on top of him before he passes out.

His last thought is for Sam and how he wishes he’d told him the truth.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dean’s not sure if he said the words out loud, but then it doesn’t matter as darkness closes around him.

**//**//**

He wakes up in a bed. He’s aching and sore all over, and his leg throbs from his hip to his knee. When he tries to open his eyes, he can only get one to cooperate; the other one seems to be swollen shut.

He’s in Bobby’s house, in the bed he woke up in after the fire all those years ago, and Sam’s asleep in the chair next to the bed. Sam’s face and throat are bruised, and his arm’s in a sling, but otherwise he looks okay. He looks good.

Then Dean remembers.

“Sam? Sammy?”

Sam stirs, shifts uncomfortably, opens one eye because the other one’s swollen shut, like Dean’s. They’re wound-twins, Dean thinks, chuckling darkly to himself.

“Hey,” Sam says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Hey, Dean. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over by a herd of buffalo,” Dean quips. “How are you?”

Sam frowns. He’s not really looking at Dean. There’s something bothering him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Sam says. “Broke my arm.”

“What — What happened?” Dean asks. “I thought we were losing. Last thing I remember is being buried alive under a pile of furry bodies.”

“Dunno,” Sam says. “They just stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“Yeah, like something called them off. Like last time.” Sam stares out the window, pulling restlessly at a loose string on his sling.

“Huh,” Dean says. “Everybody okay?”

“We lost four men,” Sam says. “Bobby’s fine, Ellen’s fine.” He lifts his eyes then, stares straight at Dean with his one good eye. “Mary was here. She’s fine, too.”

“Mom?” Dean struggles to sit up. “She’s here?”

“She left about an hour ago,” Sam says. He bites his lip, then takes a deep breath, “She told me, Dean. About us. We’re brothers. Full brothers. She said she told you already, six years ago.”

Dean’s first reaction is enormous relief. Thank God he doesn’t have to keep his mother’s nonsensical secret anymore!

The next moment he feels sick.

“Sammy, I swear I was going to tell you as soon as I got her permission. It was her secret, and she made me swear I wouldn’t tell...”

“Yeah, well, she said that, too,” Sam says. “She said we can’t tell anyone. Something about a prophecy. Two brothers saving the world from the monsters or something. But if the monsters find out it’s us, it’ll be all over before it begins.”

“Sammy, I hated all the secrecy,” Dean says. “I would’ve told you if I could, I swear.” He’s a little freaked out by Sam’s words. Mary had never said anything about saving the world.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “I know you would’ve. It’s okay.” But Sam’s not looking at him again. Sam’s not okay. “I’m heading out soon anyway. Back East. Mary — uh, I mean, Mom — got me a scholarship to Harvard. I start in a couple of months.”

“Harvard? What?” Dean’s brain feels foggy. He can’t make sense of Sam’s words.

“Yeah.” Sam glances up, winces, and looks away again. “They have a new School of Magic Arts, and they want some non-traditional students. They need people like me who’ve lived in the West. I’ve been home-schooled on the front lines of the war between monsters and men, according to their admissions letter.” Sam lets out a harsh laugh. “Home-schooled. Me. The gypsy kid who never had a home. I never knew it would be something the normal world would welcome, but there you are.”

“Sam...”

“No, it’s good, Dean,” Sam says, eyes going wide. “Bobby’s accepted the position in Sioux Falls and they want you to fill his job here as sheriff. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You’re the civilized law giver. I’m the outlaw. Always was. That’s why we balance each other out so well.”

“Sam, I can’t lose you,” Dean says, fighting the tears welling up in his eyes, choking the back of his throat.

Of course, Bobby takes that moment to check on them. He glances at Sam and nods at Dean.

“Good to see you’re awake,” he says. “That was a helluva beating you took. We weren’t sure you’d pull through.”

Dean rubs his good eye with the back of his hand. “Mom was here,” he says, accusing.

“That woman moves in and out of a place faster than anything I ever saw,” Bobby says. “I told her to wait till you woke up, but she said she had to go. She said you’d understand.”

Dean huffs out a breath, shakes his head. “She fixed me,” he suggests, and Bobby shakes his head sharply.

“No, Sam did that. Your mother just needed to check on you, I guess. And she had some news for Sam.”

“I’m headed East, Bobby,” Sam says. “Day after tomorrow. Harvard.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby says. He glances at Dean, who can’t meet his eyes because he’s still struggling with his emotions. “Okay, then. Well, at least this time we’ll know where to find you.”

“You be sure he gets a public pardon.” Dean makes his voice as gruff as he can. “This kid saved my life, more than once. If I’m gonna be sheriff of this town, folks need to hear it from you before you go.”

“You got it,” Bobby says, nodding. “But you don’t need to worry. Folks saw what you and Sam did. Those things high-tailed it after you got here. You’re heroes.”

Dean takes a deep breath. It hurts.

“Well, I’ll let you rest now,” Bobby says, patting Dean’s shoulder awkwardly. He nods at Sam. “You should hear the kids talking about you,” he says. “You’ve built up quite a reputation. They call you The Gunslinger.”

Sam huffs out a dry laugh. “That’s because they’ve never seen a real one,” he says.

Bobby nods, rueful. “I suppose they never will, way things are going,” he says.

After he leaves, Dean wracks his brain for the right words to get Sam to stay. Then he remembers the last thing that came into his head when he thought he was dying.

“Sam, I’m sorry,” he says, “for keeping your parentage from you. For — for everything.”

Sam looks up, and Dean sees the pain in his gentle hazel eyes.

“I’m not sorry for what happened between us,” Sam says. “I’m not. I just wish...”

“I should have told you, Sam.” Dean shakes his head. “Before. So you could choose freely.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Sam says. “I still would’ve wanted that. I still do.”

At first, Dean can’t say anything to that. It’s more than he deserves. It gives him hope, makes him desperate.

“Stay, Sammy,” he pleads. “We’ll figure things out. I’ll deputize you and you can help me protect this town. Nobody ever needs to know we’re brothers...”

Sam looks away, lips hardening into a stubborn line. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I can’t live like that. I have to go.”

Sam’s words are like a punch in the gut. They take all the air out of Dean’s lungs.

“It’s better this way,” Sam goes on. “I’ve got so much to learn, Dean. Now that I understand where my abilities come from, I can’t turn my back on the chance to become the best I can be. It’s too much of an opportunity to waste.”

Dean can’t speak. He wants to grab hold of Sam and never let go.

“With what I learn at Harvard, I’ll be able to help with things out here better,” Sam says. “I’ll come out in the summers, if I can.”

Dean nods. He draws a shaky breath, lets it out on a moan as his leg throbs.

Sam gets up like a shot, kneels next to the bed and pulls the blanket back to get a look. He grabs a jar of salve from the bedside table, peels back the bandages single-handedly with Dean’s help. Dean hisses as his wounds are exposed, as the bandages tug on his torn skin.

Sam bats his hands away as he applies fresh salve, mutters in Arapaho before replacing the bandages.

Dean tries not to think about the way Sam’s touching him. He tries not to think that he won’t get that again unless he’s injured or broken.

He’s already missing Sam and the kid hasn’t even left the room.

“You’ll be up and about in no time,” Sam pronounces. “Just keep applying this stuff. It protects against infection.”

Dean nods and grabs Sam’s shirt as he starts to stand up.

Sam stays on his knees, gazing up at Dean with a look that will haunt Dean’s dreams.

 _Don’t go,_ he wants to say. _Don’t leave me._

“I’ll come back,” Sam says, as if he can read Dean’s mind. Maybe he can. “I promise.”

So Dean lets him go. He lets Sam walk out of his life like it isn’t the hardest thing he’s ever done, like it doesn’t bring back every loss and every moment he’s lost someone he loves, like it doesn’t cut him in half with grief and despair.

Like it’s the first time he and Sam have separated.

**//**//**

Sam comes back, just like he promised. He wears the long black duster and black hat of a gunslinger who’s also a powerful mage, training to become a master of the magic arts.

Sam and Dean reunite in front of the whole town, and there are speeches and a party and news is exchanged. The cities and towns in the East are holding their own, and San Francisco still stands on the Western shore. Ships sail around the horn to get there, bringing Settlers and supplies. Brave hunters and hired highwaymen bring the supplies inland, across the Rockies.

Sam and Dean reunite privately in the darkness of the stable of their old farmstead, which is crumbling and falling down and smells like dust and horseflesh and home. Dean wants to rebuild the house someday, but for now he keeps up the spells and warding around the property, more hopeful than practical. Their father’s ashes are scattered here. It’ll always have meaning for them, the last place they felt completely safe.

Sam goes back to school in the fall, visits again in the summer. 

“Mary came to see me,” Sam tells Dean, who never fails to feel angry and jealous whenever Sam mentions their mother.

Sam can’t seem to call her “mom,” which they both decide is a good thing, since no one is supposed to know they’re brothers. Sam keeps the surname Mary gave him when he was twelve; it’s her maiden name, ironically, which people seem to recognize as the name of a family of hunters, so it feels right.

Sam acquires a reputation for mystery and magic. He inspires awe in the people’s imaginations, maybe also a little fear. Whenever he comes to town he weaves protection spells and warding magic into the soil, adds power to the invisible wall that keeps the monsters out.

After three years, some of the town folk stop worrying about another invasion. They go about their lives, believing in the magic and dumb luck that keeps them safe.

Sam and Dean know better. They know the monsters won’t stay away forever. They remember Denver. Every once in a while they hear of another town taken down by evil. They know it’s just a matter of time.

They keep the story of the angel to themselves, and Dean doesn’t dream about the soul-eaters again.

But he knows something’s coming. He can feel it.

It’s only a matter of time.

_fin_


End file.
